


King Arthur: Legend of the Esyllt

by Tahoe_Tess_Tudnas



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, Gender Roles, Leadership, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Romance, Self-Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:47:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 56,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3437489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tahoe_Tess_Tudnas/pseuds/Tahoe_Tess_Tudnas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, you are the one we call the Esyllt. The Beautiful,” an older, hoarse voice rang out in the Pict language, and even though she had never met him, Bedwyr knew immediately who it was. “A woman warrior that drinks ale with kings and battles the fates.” There was a rustle and a shift, as more Woads appeared out of the brush, stepping closer to her, their dark eyes never wavering from their trapped prey. “I however will call you little Morrígan. The Raven that follows Death.” </p><p>Their bond was legendary, passed down from generation to generation until fact became fiction and the scholars failed to remember - failed to record - that long ago, Isolde went by a very different name to follow her king - and her hawk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters and quotes belong to King Arthur (2009)

“By 300 AD, the Roman Empire extended from Arabia to Britain. But they wanted more. More land. More peoples loyal and subservient to Rome. But no people so important as the powerful Sarmatians to the east. Thousands died on that field. And when the smoke cleared on the fourth day, the only Sarmatian soldiers left alive were members of the decimated but legendary cavalry. The Romans, impressed by their bravery and horsemanship, spared their lives. In exchange, these warriors were incorporated into the Roman military.” – Lancelot, _King Arthur (2004)_

_Cuimhnich air na daoine bhon ta_

_naig thu_

Remember the people from whom you descend (Old Gaelic Saying)

Ever since she had been born, her life had never been her own.

“They’re here, Owen-sir,” she called out softly, looking back with solemn blue eyes.

Together, she and her adopted father watched as the contingent of Roman cavalry rode across the mountainous plain and green hills of what had been and would forever be her homeland. 

“Aye, Aga[1],” he said gruffly, putting a hand on top of her head and kneeling to look into her far too cold eyes. “You know what to do. Ye’ve been trained for this since the beginning.”

It was no question, but she answered anyway. “Aye, sir.”

“Good lass. Ye’ll do well. Now, what is yer name?”

“Bedwyr, son of Owen.”

“From where do you hail?”

“Alani, proud tribe of Sarmatia.”

“Why are you here?”

“To serve my brother, to serve Rome, and die for it if necessary.”

He chuckled grimly, and ruffled her black curls. “Yer the best bet I ever made, lass.”

She nodded once, though no smile graced her face as she gravely watched the contingent grow bigger on the horizon. She should be scared, she knew, but instead there was strength building in her limbs and wild determination in her heart. An east wind blew, whistling in her ear, and the mist curled around her fingertips in cool comfort. The scent of the ocean tasted on her lips though she knew it was lands away.

Roughly, Owen placed a hand on her shoulder and guided her back toward the village, whispering threatening encouragements in her ear.

“Never forget those words, Aga, or your namesake. You are an oath, a sword bound in blood and fire and battle. Do not forget your story or your debt. You are forever ours and theirs, and we need you to survive this, because if you don’t . . .”

“Aga!”   

“. . . they’ll find him.”

A small blond child of eight years ran toward her, sprinting through the huts and shouting at the tops of his lungs. His blue eyes were so innocent, so pure that she always wanted to cringe away like her black soul was not worthy of such trust or devotion. Instead, she opened her arms and waited before sweeping him into a hug.

Owen allowed her this one selfish indulgence, turning away to go into his own hut where Aga could hear her adopted mother Caiph sing of home and freedom lost while preparing for dinner.

She closed her eyes, breathing in the wood-fire and fresh grass scent of her beloved adopted brother.

“Are you really leaving, Aga?” he whispered in her ear, voice trembling with sorrow.

She nodded once and his arms grew tighter around her before letting go, putting his hands on her shoulders.

“Promise me you’ll come back,” he begged, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

She considered him closely. He was the reason for her oath – her promise – her everything. How could she deny him such empty words?

“I promise, Bedwyr,” she said, voice as serious as a kurgan[2].  

His eyes widened, before he gathered her again into a hug, tears streaking down his cheeks. She touched his golden locks reverently once in comfort, her eyes closed as she sought to immortalize this one last moment of freedom.

“It’s time, Bedwyr,” she heard Owen say.

Her shoulders straightened stiffly and with heavy limbs, she let her precious brother go, dawning the mantle of her new identity.

Owen stood there with the reins of her beloved horse, Tamatahra[3], while Caiph leaned into her husband, aloof but wary eyes on their foster daughter. She had never trusted Aga, either with this oath or with Bedwyr himself as a child.  Caiph and Aga had always had an understanding – that of master and servant. Aga had known this, had never in fact resented it, for she was the intruder here – in this family and this tribe.

Her every breath was a debt that had been bought and sold on family tables.

Aga strode over to Owen until they stood together. He looked at her for a moment, his black eyes unreadable before leaning down and placing a kiss of blessing upon her brow.

“ _مبارزه_ _برای_ _زندگی،_ _زندگی_ _می_ _کنند_ _و_ _به_ _مبارزه_ _با_.”[4]

He took a deep breath and stepped back, voice rough and steady in the wind: “Remember the words of our fathers, Aga, and you will survive.”

She closed her eyes as well, carving the words onto her heart, before opening them and staring into Owen’s.  “I will, Owen-sir.”

He nodded then handed the reins of her horse to her.

Tamatahra shifted nervously once then steadied, as though knowing his mistress’ duty and mission. He nuzzled her hair for a moment, before she whistled. As trained, he kneeled briefly, allowing her to mount him. Tamatahra, the Great Lord, was the largest horse in the tribe, nearly a full head taller than her adopted father, a pitch black monolith in the rising mist. He was wildly young – barely over two summers – but their bond was unbreakable, forged on freedom found in the hills and valleys of the wind.

In the distance, she could hear the Romans call for the Sarmatian son – their reminder of an oath given in the loss of war and long since bound.

She looked down from her horse and stared deeply into the solemn eyes of Owen and Caiph and Bedwyr, and bowed her head, one hand grasping at the bear fang which had hung from her neck since she was a babe.

“Thank you,” she said, hoping it was enough to convey her gratitude at their kindness, unhindered and freely shown to a cursed foundling babe for over a decade.

Her adopted family bowed their heads back to her and Owen handed her the spear – one of the few possessions that had been found next to her abandoned cradle long ago. She took it, clasping the familiar handle firmly, before she turned Tamatahra around, guiding him to where the Romans and the other Sarmatian indentured young men stood in formation.  

The rest of the village parted for her like a stream, their dark eyes solemn and faces wary if a tad grateful even as she kept her own eyes forward on the Roman soldier who awaited her.

She would be the only sacrifice for the next 15 years, the only child of this Alani tribe to ensure that their chieftain’s son – precious Bedwyr - would never become another lamb at the Romans’ table.

It was a debt paid freely for they had allowed her – a foundling of the steppes – to live and learn among them.

She eyed the lead Roman soldier with stark wariness as she approached, guiding Tamatahra to where the tall armored man sat upon his mount. Behind him, his men shifted nervously in their seats, anxious at the utter silence and black stares coming from that last Sarmatian tribe in the North.

The Roman decurion[5] was different. His grey eyes never shifted nor searched, only watched the child steadily. When he was close enough, the old soldier grabbed the reins of Tamatahra, pulling the child and horse closer to him so that he may have a look at the new addition.

At first glance to the decurion, the child was scrawny, skin and bones more like, and young - far younger than any of the other children who usually boasted of their teenage years. He wore the usual Sarmatian nomadic garb of worn brown breeches, a black sash as a belt, and a rough, thick tunic with heavy boots.

In his steady hand, he carried a lance – at least two meters long - with an iron-forged head at the point and strange markings etched into the dark wood of the handle. The spearhead was tied with a bit of leather, and the Roman could see the claws of wolves, carved wooden beads, and what looked like a bear fang hanging from it.

Roughly, the Roman grabbed the child’s chin, tilting his head every which way. The child didn’t fight and didn’t flinch - just stared into his eyes with unwavering solidity.

He had soft, delicate features which made him look even younger. A dirt-smudged face was hidden under haggard black raven locks that ended at his shoulder with the sides of his fringe plaited into two beaded braids.

A dark blue tattoo – a small cross and a wavy, jagged sign of a W[6] – was etched on his right cheek, just below the corner of his eye, while another smaller tattoo of a straight line and three dots was stamped directly on his left forehead.

Long eyelashes fluttered lightly over icy blue eyes set in a pale face. The Roman soldier felt a shiver down his spine when meeting those eyes. There was something there, a flash of simmering defiance unbroken and untamed but carefully restrained in a way which he simply could not name.

He smirked, abruptly satisfied, before letting the child’s chin go roughly.

“ _Well, you’re a little young to be joining, lad, ain’t ye_?” he asked in Latin, knowing the child wouldn’t understand.

The child merely stared at him, keeping his monster of a horse steady with a simple hand, a casual movement that would have had his battle-worn cavalry itching with envy.

Once again, he met the child’s unnaturally calm gaze, feeling a cool sweat upon his brow. “What’s your name, child?” he asked, this time in his Sarmatian language. 

“Bedwyr,” the child answered, his voice hoarse but sure in the wind.

The Roman nodded, a smirk never leaving his face. This was a rare one he wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on. “Well, Bedwyr, welcome to the Roman legion.”

The child nodded to him, and then to the Roman’s surprise, a ghost of a smirk appeared on his face. “ _And I thank Rome for invitation_.”

The decurion blinked then barked a laugh. His laughter died when he heard his men shifting behind him and cast a glance over his shoulder. “ _Alright, you heard the lad. Let’s move out_ ,” he ordered.  

He turned back to the child – Bedwyr. “ _Head to the back of the line. Try to keep up. We have a long way to go_.”

The child didn’t acknowledge him, just turned his massive horse towards the end. The Roman soldier glanced around at the village. During the entire exchange, the people of the tribe had remained silent, eyes tracking the Roman cavalry and their human cargo warily. He sneered at them, before turning his own horse to the front. _Bloody savages._

Behind his back, the familiar cry of “Rus!” broke out among the Sarmatians, their fists raised in the air to salute a son once again lost to the Roman fold. 

Out of the corner of his eye, the decurion noted that the child Bedwyr never moved or flinched and never glanced back at the sound of his tribe saluting him – just rode forward, thin shoulders stiff and lance steady in one hand, while the other guided the giant black steed beneath him with unwavering familiarity.

Above them, an eagle screeched into the wind before gliding over the misty steppes of old. There was a long journey ahead.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Persian name meaning “Sword.”
> 
> [2] A kurgan is a stone tomb built in ancient Persian times.
> 
> [3] http://www.anthroglobe.info/docs/Sergei/scythian-sarmatian-religion.htm
> 
> [4] Google Translate: “Fight to live and live to fight”. 
> 
> [5] Roman decurions: leaders of 14-30 men on horseback
> 
> [6] The cross reads as ay – meaning egg; the World Tree; the sun; life; vitality. The wavy sign of the W meant da which means ‘to give, giver, heat’. http://www.anthroglobe.info/docs/Sergei/scythian-sarmatian-religion.htm


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Courage is contagious. When a brave man takes a stand, the spines of others are often stiffened.” – Billy Graham
> 
> In which Bedwyr gathers a few fellows, Arthur holds Court, and Lancelot makes a choice.

**

_Am fear a thug buaidh air fhein, thug e buaidh air namhaid_

He who conquers himself, conquers an enemy (old Gaelic saying)

* * *

 

The future Knights of the Round Table had been at Hadrian’s Wall nearly three years before they first really got to know their comrade Bedwyr and their future leader Arthur Castus.

Like all good things for Sarmatian men, it happened during a fight.

The beginning of spring time at Hadrian’s Wall was always unbearably hot with a mugginess that filled the lungs and dragged the body. The heat often drove the soldiers to reckless fights and quick tempers, ending with lots of property damage and infirmary visits.

The boys – for they were not yet men in the eyes of Rome – had taken refuge in the tavern, struggling to cool off. Their training had been canceled that day – apparently, it was too hot even for their commander to take part in any activity outside.

Among the other rabble in the tavern, the older youths Dagonet and Tristan sat in the shade, sipping at their ale in silence while Gawain and Galahad faced off in a knife-throwing competition. Next to them, young Lancelot flirted with the new bartender – a red-headed Briton girl named Vanora with Bors watching jealously from the sidelines, before scowling darkly into his beer.

A knife thudded into the chair. Gawain let out a groan while Galahad and his fans cheered. 

“And that’s game, Gawain,” Galahad laughed, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “You owe me a pint.”

“I owe you the tip of my sword,” Gawain grumbled, standing up to get the knives.

He was reaching to pull out the last knife when a hand grabbed onto his wrist and twisted.

Gawain barely flinched, just looked up, and smiled grimly. “Why, hello, Accius, how are you this fine day?”

Accius, one of the legionnaires, merely sneered into his face. The man was several years Gawain’s senior, with the muscles and height to spare, towering over the young Sarmatian.

“Well, well, if it isn’t a little Sarmatian dog,” the Roman drawled, ale obviously loosening his tongue. Behind him, Gawain could see several other soldiers step up with equally disturbing leers on their faces.

Carefully, he twisted his arm out of the other’s grip, taking a step back.

Gawain felt Galahad step up behind him in support, though little it could do with two teenagers facing roughly ten soldiers on the other side.

Around them, the chatter in the tavern abruptly quieted, sensing a fight brewing in their midst.

Gawain heard the scrapping of chairs as a few of his friends rose to his defense before he sneered back. “What do you want, Accius?” he asked, posture tense.

Accius stepped forward, challenging. “You Sarmatian dogs think you’re so great, that we’ll even consider you to fight with us. You aren’t even fit to lick a legionnaire’s shoes, you worthless slaves.”

To their credit, the Sarmatians in the tavern didn’t flinch. Tristan even went so far as casually taking another bite from his apple with his knife while Dagonet and Bors merely exchanged feral looks. By now, the rest of the young Sarmatian men had moved to stand for support, all dark eyes trained on the Roman soldiers.

It was Lancelot who answered, casually, not even looking up from his beer. “Better to be Sarmatian dogs than Roman pigs, especially with the way you wave that spear around like you’re looking to stick one of your own, if you know what I mean.” He added a lecherous smirk for effect that had Vanora giggling at his side.

The Sarmatians burst into rowdy laughter at that, while Accius’ face turned a dark, thunderous red, the soldiers at his side growling and clenching their fists.

“Is that so? Well, why’s your commander Artorius taking _us_ on patrol against the Woads with him while you’re here behind the Wall sitting on your thumbs like some cow-faced wenches?” the Roman sneered.

All the Sarmatians tensed in bitter, resentful anger.

In the few years that they had lived within the Wall, Arthur Castus had solidified a place at their side – both in battle and without. His belief in equality and justice for _all_ men – not just Romans – was absolute, and even they - the bitter Sarmatian pagans and indentured servants - could not help but follow willingly in his wake.

There was a doubt seeded though – in themselves and Arthur – because no matter how many Woads appeared in the North, Arthur had yet to test them in real battle, instead stationing them at the Wall for guard duty while more and more Roman legionnaires went forth to fight during the campaigns.

Perhaps it was the heat or the spit or the vicious words that struck a little too close to home but Gawain felt his control audibly snap as he punched the Roman in the face – there was a moment of shocked silence and after that, it was a free for all, the Romans versus the Sarmatians.

Gawain immediately knocked out Accius, breaking his nose on impact before the other soldiers swarmed him with numbers. Galahad backed him up, grabbing a chair as leverage and sweeping two of the Romans onto their backs in a swift movement.

Dagonet and Tristan easily jumped into the fray, methodically dispatching any of the soldiers with chairs, tables, or other blunt objects on hand, careful not to draw their swords or knives. Lancelot had abandoned Vanora for the battle, finding sheer unbridled joy in beating the arrogant Romans with bloody fists and the occasional mug.

Bors downed his drink and seized the opportunity, coming to Vanora’s aid as one overly aggressive soldier grabbed at her skirt. She whacked the offending Roman with her tray before Bors knocked him out from behind with a strike to the head. He herded Vanora back to the kitchens with a passionate kiss before jumping back into the brawl with a roar.

It looked like the Sarmatians were winning as more and more Romans fell to the ground, until Gawain fell with a hiss as one particular Roman decided to pull a knife, scraping along the back of his arm.

Gawain turned, his eyes wild with rage and fists raised to attack - only to jump back suddenly as a jagged knife flew through the two brawlers with uncanny speed and precision before embedding into the wooden post of the wall.

Simultaneously, everyone in the tavern stopped and turned to find who could have possibly thrown the knife.

And there, hidden in the doorway, was a boy cloaked in ragged dark green scouting gear, casually flipping a knife into the air. His body was relaxed against the wooden doorway, accentuating long limbs, straight shoulders, and a thin waist.

A wild mane of black feathered locks swept across shoulders and partially covered a fair face with uneven fringe and beaded braids. His dirt-smudged features were delicate with high cheek bones and a pointed chin without a hint of stubble. On his back, they could see the ring-shaped hilt of a straight-edged _kopis_ sword, which looked of similar length to Tristan’s. It hung from a black cloth sash wrapped around his chest.

Deep blue eyes regarded the gathered men with a cool detachment while a smirk twisted his tattooed face into an expression of soft, sardonic amusement.

He was the picture of arrogant, wild beauty, something unattainable and out of reach that stole the breath of all who gazed upon him and made them question his presence as one would stare in wonder at the appearance of a majestic wolf stalking about the courtyard.

The Sarmatians recognized his tattoos as one of their tribes but could do little to place the boy in any of their training rounds or in the barracks of the fortress.

One particularly heavy Roman soldier had no trouble recognizing him though, for as soon as he spotted the intruder, a rage appeared on his face, multiplied by ten-fold, and he advanced toward the boy menacingly.

“Bedwyr,” he growled, tone underlined with rough anger.

The beautiful boy - Bedwyr - merely raised an eyebrow in challenge, casually flipping his knife once more from his lazy position lounging in the doorway. The other Romans eyed the newcomer with barely concealed trepidation, completely ignoring the Sarmatians they had been fighting before.

The heavy soldier continued to advance, stumbling over chairs and tables, the drink and heat mixing unwell.

“Bedwyr,” he said again. “You have been a thorn in our sides long enough. We’ll beat you bloody. Toss your bones off the Wall. You tempting creature, how dare . . .”

The soldier stopped, the words stuck on his tongue, when a flash of light caught the sun and a sword appeared at his throat.

Sarmatians and Romans alike blinked, for they had not seen the boy move.

And even though the boy barely reached the top of the soldier’s shoulder, there was Death in those blue eyes and when he spoke, a winter wind spoke with him, sending chills down their spines and sobering them instantly.

“Now, Egidius,” the boy Bedwyr said, his voice casual with barely a hint of the obvious menace underneath. “You won’t be so stupid as to say that again, will you?”

The words were only slightly tinted by his Sarmatian accent, with the Roman Latin slipping easily off his tongue.

The ale must have flowed freely for the soldier because Egidius actually moved forward into the sword, with a sneer curling his lips and his voice rough with want and anger. “You, whore _boy_. Why I ought to take you out back like the wench you are and teach you a lesson. No wonder Artorius favors you, you probably spread those legs for him every chance you get, you whelp of a Saramtian _cur_.”

The Sarmatians tensed, fury filling their features as they recalled all of the tales of Roman boy lovers and child rapists. To compare Arthur to them was blasphemy of the highest order. Their blood boiled and the future Knights reached for their weapons.

Bedwyr barely blinked, a blank mask on his face even as he pressed the sword closer to the man’s throat, drawing a thin line of blood. “To think, I imagined that you Romans couldn’t sink any lower.  How . . . boring.”

Then, the boy moved with blinding speed, flipping his sword in a deadly dance to slam the soldier with one hilt to his head and a knee to his groin.

Egidius fell hard to the ground, blood sliding down from his forehead while he clutched his hands between his knees in a high pitched shriek.

Bedwyr sheathed his blade, standing over the groaning man and looking at him with no emotion on his face. “If you had only left Arthur out of it,” he said, reprimanding. “I would have left it alone.”

He turned his back, snatching a piece of bread from the nearby table and wandering away toward the kitchen.

“You’ll pay for that, boy,” Egidius squeaked, still clutching his groin. Bedwyr merely waved a hand casually behind him in the air as though to dismiss a fly.

The Romans by now had realized they should take their losses and run, gathering a still limp Egidius, while the Sarmatians all looked at each other like discharge had come early – a good brawl, good drink, and a Roman pig squealing on the ground? What could be better? 

“Oi, who the hell are ye?” Bors shouted happily, pointing at Bedwyr, while casually grabbing another pint from one of the tables.

Bedwyr paused and looked at them all before nodding in greeting, still munching on the piece of bread. “’Name’s Bedwyr. I work here.”

“Oh, aye,” Galahad asked, finding his knife on the ground and wiping it off on his shirt before glancing at the boy. “But what are ye doing here, lad?”

The raven-haired boy shrugged. “Same as you. Waiting for my discharge.”

Gawain chuckled bitterly at that. “Well, you’ll be waiting a long time, I reckon.”

Bedwyr nodded nonchalantly, a curious glint in his eyes as he watched them all before sitting in a seat in the corner.  The group stood awkwardly there for a moment, eyeing each other, before they moved to help Vanora and the other bartenders to set the tables to right around them and pushing the chairs back into the place.

Finally, they all collected in the corner where the boy sat, whittling a piece of wood and humming an old Sarmatian tune.

Lancelot coughed to catch his attention and leaned forward, motioning the rest of his brothers-at-arms.

“Well, Galahad, Gawain, Dagonet, Tristan, Bors, and I – we’ve all been here for about three years now this summer. How long have you been here?” he asked, eyeing the boy curiously.

It must have been recently given his youth, but the boy was a pretty skilled fighter with that sword.

Bedwyr’s eyes cooled a bit at the question. He put his knife and wood piece down then reached for an abandoned mug, gulping it in a single go.

“You mean here at the Wall?” he asked, wiping a little bit of the beer form his mouth. Galahad and Gawain blinked at that question.

“Where else could ya be?” Bors scowled, taking another sip of beer, while eyeing the kitchens in hopes that Vanora would come back.

At his side, Dagonet was watching the boy curiously as well, face unreadable.

Tristan remained silent standing in the back, casually carving his apple, while his dark eyes considered the boy sharply. The scout noted the tension in the boy’s shoulders and the battle-honed reflexes in every movement. There was something wilder about Bedwyr, an element that reminded Tristan of a collared wolf just biding its time to the bite the hand that stayed it.

“Well, the Romans picked me up from my tribe about five years ago, but I’ve only been at the Wall for about a year this winter, give or take,” Bedwyr said casually.

Bors choked on his beer while the rest nearly gaped a bit in shock.

“What were you doing for the legion before you got here?” Galahad asked curiously, a little disbelief in his tone at the thought that this boy had seen battle.

Bedwyr shrugged his shoulders. “I already knew how to fight so they put me on back-to-back messenger and scouting missions in the South with a group of Romans that didn’t know the difference between a broken twig and the snake in their pants, if you get my meaning.”

He wiggled his eyebrows for effect and even the stoic Dagonet laughed outright at the insult.   

“So, I’ve only really been at the Wall a couple months,” the boy explained once the laughter died down. “But Arthur’s my commander now, so I should be here at the Wall a lot more.”

The other Sarmatians noted the pride in his voice at that and Lancelot couldn’t help but chuckle. “How old are ye though, kid?” he asked. “You look like a whelp.”

The boy’s eyes frosted over at the words. “I’ve seen fifteen summers this past full moon,” he answered stiffly.

“Fifteen?”  Lancelot chuckled wryly. “You’ve got to be joking. That can’t be. That’d mean the Roman bastards picked you up at what? Ten?”

Bedwyr didn’t answer, merely took another sip of ale, and turned his gaze toward a group of Roman soldiers doing drills in the courtyard.

At a loss, Lancelot looked around at his other brothers-at-arms. Tristan in the background wore a grim and tense expression, absently chewing his apple, while Dagonet merely shook his head, a darkening scowl on his face. The two of them were the oldest at 20 years, while Bors, Gawain, and Lancelot were at 18. Galahad was only 17 years, having been the youngest of the group.

With five battle-worn years alone under Roman rule, no wonder the boy was so jaded.

“How dare they?!” Bors growled out, sloshing his beer and startling Bedwyr, when he abruptly stood then sat next to him and angled the smaller boy into a burly one-arm hug. “Well, you’re one of us now, kid, a’right? We’ll keep those pigs off your tail, I reckon.”

Gawain and Galahd both hid smiles in their beers while it looked like Dagonet wanted to groan. If anyone could get the kid to loosen up, it was Bors.

Bedwyr to his credit only looked mildly startled at the sudden contact, like a frightened deer, before he nodded with a mischievous smirk. “Yeah, I reckon, I could do the same for you.”

The boy whipped his head around, and called out to the kitchen.

“Hey, Vanora,” they heard him say, voice as lighthearted as a child’s. “The boys are getting rowdy again. Let’s have some pints, yeah?”

“That you again, Bedwyr?” came the call from inside before the red-headed lass emerged, carrying three more pints of ale and smiling.

Bedwyr didn’t smile, however; he just nodded toward Bors who had a distinctly love-struck look upon his face.

Vanora flushed under Bors’ heavy gaze before giving the burly man a mug and Lancelot for once didn’t feel the need to leap to the young maiden’s rescue, feeling perfectly content to sit next to Gawain and Galahad and start a game of dice.

After that, the ale flowed freely as the evening started to cool. Vanora did eventually end up singing under a little of Bors’ persuasion while Lancelot lost three games of dice and five pieces of coin to both Galahad and Gawain. Dagonet and Tristan started their own game of knife-throwing while Bedwyr sat in the corner, watching them all with hooded eyes and an almost content expression on his face. Loose women and even looser soldiers started piling back into the tavern with good cheer and pretty soon, a rowdy celebration was occurring as more songs were sung and ale was drunk.

Despite the cheer and chaos, Tristan with his hawk-like gaze kept an eye out for Bedwyr, but quickly found that the boy was gone from his corner, having disappeared earlier into the night. The silent scout wondered why he had such an interest in the lad, but then shrugged before turning back to his mug.

The next morning for the future Knights was brutal, with harsh sword drills and an unbearable drenching heat in the courtyard.

Even Dagonet, who didn’t take to the drink as badly as the rest, looked perfectly miserable in his armor. By noon, most of them were sprawled in the shade of a tree outside the Wall, trying to find some relief from sweltering sun. 

“You lot look like you could use a change of pace then, eh?”

They picked up their heads to look and spotted Bedwyr, a reserved expression back on his face despite the lighter tone in his voice. He was perched on a large black battle-horse that pawed the ground anxiously and snorted. Oddly enough, he rode bareback like those of his ancestors with only a bit of leather as reins. The horse’s mane carried feathered and beaded braids like that of its owner. 

If they weren’t so exhausted and ill, they would have taken the time to admire the fine Sarmatian steed; instead, they just groaned aloud, not even shifting from their positions.

“Oh, what do ye want, boy?” Lancelot growled, turning over to lie on his side. “Just leave us to die in peace, eh?”

“Well, I can’t do that,” the boy said matter-of-factly, hopping down from his mount. “I already told Arthur you’d be ready for him.” 

“Ready for what?” Galahad asked, one eye opening and considering the boy.

He was wearing Sarmatian fitted chest armor, a mix of black leather and painted blue-green scales made of horse hoof chips gleaming in the noon sun. The shoulder pads of the armor were dragon claws, reaching down and wrapping around his forearms, as was their custom. Underneath, he wore a white tunic, showing toned arms, and heavy brown breeches for his long legs that ended with black soldier’s boots.

It was roughly the official battle dress for any Sarmatian soldier in the Roman legion.

The little imp merely looked at them all seriously. “You’ve been summoned to appear in Court within the hour. Try to at least look presentable.”

Then he tossed the scroll onto the ground before turning back to his horse and mounting in a single graceful motion. 

It took a moment for any of them to react and it was Lancelot – one of the few who could read Latin - who moved first, reaching for the scroll from his position on the ground. It fluttered to the ground as he opened it and he read off the letters.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. “The lad’s right. Commander’s calling us to Court.”

They all groaned but started to get up, picking their gear and armor from the floor before putting them on and sorting it out until they actually look like they hadn’t _just_ taken baths in their own sweat. Some of them were still tying their belts when they noticed that Bedwyr hadn’t left and was still waiting on his horse, watching them expectantly with piercing cool blue eyes. 

“What’re you still doing here?”  Bors growled lightly, as he put his scimitars back in their sheaths.

Bedwyr merely raised an eyebrow. “Do you know where the Court is? Arthur told me that none of you had been there before.”

Lancelot scowled. “Of course, we do. It’s the hall where we’ve receive the mission scrolls.”

But Bedwyr shook his head, a strange expression on his face as he looked at them. “That’s not it. You’re meeting in _Arthur_ ’s Court, not the Romans’. I’ll lead you there.”

The Sarmatians shared a look of confusion but didn’t argue, instead choosing to follow Bedwyr in exhausted silence.

The day was still hot overhead and even Tristan, who was used to such activity early in the morning for scouting missions, was feeling the sweat on the back of his neck and heaviness in his limbs.

The boy and his black horse ambled along in front of them at their pace – neither demanding they speed up nor pausing at the gate when the guards asked. 

Eventually, they reached the main courtyard and waited as Bedwyr sent his beautiful horse back to the stables with promises of hay and carrots. Then he motioned for them to follow, turning down one of the many stone halls.

The six men shadowed him closely, feeling more and more anxious as the time passed and they trailed the boy further and further into the Roman fort. Both Dagonet and Bors flanked the back while in front, walked Galahad and Gawain, postures tense and ready. Just behind Bedwyr, Lancelot and Tristan stalked together in stony silence, glaring menacingly at a few of the Roman politicians, soldiers, and priests that looked disdainfully their way.

Bedwyr didn’t take notice of either the clear disapproval in the Romans’ faces or the growing worry in the Sarmatians behind him. He just continued along on silent steps until he reached a large wooden door, guarded by two Roman soldiers.

Next to them, a familiar quartermaster stood behind a large wooden trunk, and appeared to be reading a scroll.

“Jols,” Bedwyr greeted with a nod as the group paused nervously outside the doors, fingering their weapons and eyeing the tall Roman guards.

The man simply looked up at the Sarmatians with a keen, approving eye before glaring at Bedwyr with exasperation. “Did you even warn them, Bedwyr?”

Bedwyr shook his head, before taking off his sword and knife and placing them in the trunk.

Jols sighed in exasperation before turning to the Sarmatians. “As Bedwyr _should_ have informed you, weapons are not allowed in Arthur’s Court. Please place them into the wooden chest. I’ll lock it and you can have them when you return.”

There was visible outrage at this. Bors seemed particularly upset with having to part with his scimitar gauntlets while the rest clenched at their swords or knives.

“Until we know what this is all about, we’re not giving up our weapons,” Lancelot snarled, eyeing the Roman guards carefully. Both soldiers remained stoic and had neither reacted to the outrage nor to the now vicious mutterings from the Sarmatians.

Bedwyr and Jols shared a look before the younger raven-haired boy stepped forward.

“I swear to you in the name of my ancestors that none of you will come to harm beyond this door,” Bedwyr swore, placing a hand on his heart and bowing his head.

There was a moment of shocked silence because that oath was not easily given, before Tristan stepped up, a strange glint in his eye as he looked at Bedwyr then placed his sword into the trunk.

After that, with some minor grumbling, the rest of them followed suit until their swords, Tristan’s bow, Bors’ gauntlets, and Dagonet’s war-hammer were all in the trunk.

Jols nodded, sealing up the chest, and locking it before giving Bedwyr a look. Bedwyr nodded back with a distinctly smug air before marching through the wooden doors, barely giving the Roman guards a glance.

The Sarmatians paused for a moment before following after him. 

Inside, to their surprise, were more than a few people. They easily recognized some of their fellow Sarmatians as well as a few Roman military officers, all standing in various clusters across the room and chattering to each other in easy camaraderie.

The crowd barely gave the newcomers a glance, instead nodding to Bedwyr as he weaved their way through the room over to where a man stood next to an oddly large round table. He was hunched over a map, making marks while a Roman legionnaire pointed at various sections.

Lancelot and Gawain shared a wary glance, even as the six young men approached the famous Roman commander.

“Arthur,” Bedwyr called out with surprising familiarity. Arthur stiffened and turned to look at the newcomers before giving them a large unabashed smile.

Up close, Lancelot was surprised to see that the celebrated commander, who had blasted his way up through the ranks, was barely their age with only a few lines around the corners of his eyes and not a pepper of gray hair near his skull.

Despite his youth, the man looked every inch the Roman soldier he was supposed to be – in the line of his shoulders and air of authority - and Lancelot bristled a little because the man was _all_ Roman, wearing the legionnaire armor and gear – or at least he _was_ up until Lancelot noticed that Arthur was unshaven, with little bags under his eyes, and had dismissed the legionnaire who was trying to speak to him in favor of welcoming some Sarmatians to his Hall.

“Welcome, Bedwyr,” Arthur greeted, voice deep and sure in the room. Across the table, the other Sarmatians and Romans had quieted their conversations and now glanced in their direction. “Are these the men you mentioned?”

Bedwyr nodded before stepping away from them. “My lord, may I introduce Bors, Dagonet, Gawain, Galahad, Tristan, and Lancelot of Sarmatia.”

Each one bowed his head in greeting when his name was called, masking their surprise that Bedwyr even remembered their names.

To their wonder, Arthur bowed back in greeting as well. “Welcome to my Court, my comrades. We have much to discuss, if Bedwyr is to be believed.”

Lancelot cast a questioning glance to Gawain before he spoke up. “If I may ask, my lord, why have you called us here?”

The other four looked just as confused for they were still just common guards for the Wall while the other men were clearly of higher rank.

Arthur merely smiled tiredly. “You six men have been assigned to me for the remainder of your servitude to Rome.”

Lancelot could not interpret the underlining emotion in Arthur’s tone when he said ‘servitude’, but quickly dismissed it. 

“Please let’s have a seat and start this meeting,” Arthur said, ignoring their shock. The other men in the room took that as their cue to also sit down, settling into the benches around the table.

To their joy, there were also goblets of wine served to each soldier and as they settled down, Arthur stood up, raising a toast to the ceiling, looking each of them in the eye. “Let us not forget those who fought and died before us. And for those of us still here, circle us, our Lord, and keep the light near and the darkness afar.”

“Aye!” they cried, taking large sips of their wine.

Arthur took one sip, and placed his goblet down but remained standing, hands placed on the map before him. “Now, I have called you all here because of my promotion. As of one week ago, I have been given the station as commander here at Hadrian’s Wall.”

Mutterings burst out along the ranks, while the Sarmatian men exchanged surprised glances.

With a glance, Tristan noted that Bedwyr, seated at Arthur’s right hand, did not say a word but merely took another sip of wine.

Arthur continued. “Over the past few years, the Woads have been steadily encroaching into our territory. We have reports that more and more Roman settlements have suffered from outright attacks. On top of that, there has been an increase of raider activity along the sea line.”

The men listened with rapt attention watching as Arthur shared a glance with Bedwyr then persisted. “We have had Roman scouts in the woods north of the Wall before but very few have returned alive so we have little idea of the scope of the Woads’ numbers or how much a threat they pose. There has been a confirmation, however, that they are led by a man with the name of Merlin.”

There were nervous mutterings when one of the Romans spoke up.

“Merlin? The Black Magician? I thought he was just a myth.” 

A few others voiced this concern as well.

Next to him, Bedwyr frowned while Arthur patiently shook his head. “He is indeed a man, though whether or not he is a magician, I cannot say.”

Arthur paused then moved and unfolded the map, showing the Great Isles with Hadrian’s Wall dividing the two territories. He pointed to the Wall then looked at each and every soldier at his table. “What I am about to tell you is confidential, but there has been a substantial decrease of Roman and Sarmatian legions sent to Hadrian’s Wall. The Pope himself has decreed that no more of his papal soldiers will be sent North while the Senate is now arguing for less and less expansion of the Roman empire.”

With a sigh, the centurion sank into the bench, face solemn and grim while his voice urged the severity of the situation. “Basically, gentlemen, it is looking like we may be the last line of defense for a long while.”

A solemn silence descended as both Sarmatians and Romans pondered that information.

Gawain and Galahad exchanged contemplative glances while Lancelot merely crossed his arms struggling to look disinterested. He wanted to say that these were Roman problems, let the Romans deal with them. But Woads . . . even he knew that the Woads were trouble, especially if they had grown so bold. The six of them had only been in a few skirmishes with the Britons but he knew extremism when he saw it.

Arthur himself looked as though he bore the burden of a thousand, shoulders slightly hunched under the weight, before he shook himself and stood up again, catching everyone’s eye.

“Gentlemen, here is my strategy. I plan to start a campaign this summer against the Woads to push them deeper into their territory. That will be discussed in depth later. In regards to the Roman settlements, we will station two to three squadrons north and south of the Wall along the trade routes for further protection toward any Roman citizens traveling through the area. We will double the amount of legionnaires in the South and create military stations in several of the key settlements where they will set up regular patrol routes along the usual roads.”

One of the Romans started sputtering. “Are you sure, Arthur? You just mentioned that we are running out of men. Campaigns in the North? More legions in the South? There will be no more soldiers to guard the Wall at this rate.”

Arthur gave the man a cool glance. “And if there’s not?” he asked quietly. There was a pause before he continued. “My predecessor kept a majority of the Roman and Sarmatian troops at the Wall, as did the centurions before him. It has done nothing to either prevent the attacks on our people or keep the Woads from encroaching on our territory. Instead, I have seen too many trained soldiers in our courtyard getting fat off ale and bread while the rest of this country suffered. If this remained our strategy, we would all be at the end of our supplies and soldiers in five years.”

The words were damning and several of the older officers flinched, while Lancelot’s estimation of the man rose slightly. Even Dagonet and Bors smiled grimly at the rebuke.

The Sarmatians had always been the sole voice of support in attacking the Woads, using their guerrilla warfare against their own harass-and-evade tactics. The Roman soldiers, however, had been trained for hand-to-hand combat and direct battle movements so they had not agreed.

At Arthur’s side, Bedwyr remained silent and stony while Tristan watched him with dark eyes.

Arthur shook his head. “No, we have done the calculations. If our trained soldiers continue to hide behind this Wall, there will be no territory left to defend and eventually, the citizens will be beaten down. We must act now, while there are still soldiers here fighting.”

“Very well,” said one older Roman, whose greying hair belied great experience. “What would you have us do, Arthur?”

Arthur tensed as though preparing for battle, before he straightened his shoulders. “I want you to add the Sarmatians to your patrols and to start using their own tactics.”

There was an intake or several intakes of breath before strings of curses and outrages poured forth, the noise growing in the chamber to deafening results.

“You dare?!”

“Those dogs aren’t worthy to be in our contingents!”

“Like we would want to be!”

“You Roman pigs keep the legionnaires so tight on your leashes no wonder the blue demons walk all over you!”

“Bastards!”

“Pagan filth!”

And the Court descended into anarchy with only a few keeping quiet on the sidelines. Lancelot and the others watched the chaos stoically, having gotten a good amount of their fighting anger out earlier in the day and the previous night. Lancelot did note that Arthur had not moved from his position and was in fact just watching the fighting with an indifferent eye, though every now and again he would glance over to the Sarmatians. 

“Silence,” Arthur called out with such utter conviction and determination in the word that it cut through the noise like a knife.

The young Roman centurion looked at every one of the soldiers carefully.

“Do you know why I have gathered you all here today?” he asked. There was no response so he carried on. “I ask you here not as a commander with any semblance of authority but as a man of equality. All of you sit equal at this table. I will listen to your complaints and take both opinions into account no matter the man’s origins. If you truly feel that you cannot put aside your differences and work together for the sake of Rome and yourselves, then I must ask you to leave this table now.”

 There was a pause before several of the men – mostly Romans and a couple of the Sarmatians – stood, looking defiant and bitter in the light.

Arthur sighed. “Very well, your contingents will remain at the Wall for guard duty and protection of the supply lines for now. I will assign different stations for your soldiers later on. You may leave.”

The disgruntled group stalked out after that. Lancelot was not sorry to see them go.

The rest of the crowd stayed stubbornly seated and although there was some glaring and posturing on both sides, the remainder of the meeting passed in relative peace as Arthur started assigning training and missions to merge both the Roman legion and the Sarmatian troops seamlessly under his command.

Finally, only thirteen of the men – including Lancelot and his friends - remained behind in Arthur’s Court.

Arthur glanced at them all, grey eyes sweeping across the gathered soldiers with a silent intensity that had most shifting in their seats. Lancelot noted that of the thirteen men, ten were Sarmatians while the last three were Romans - _older_ Roman soldiers at that.

“Now, I ask of those of you remaining to stand up and introduce yourselves,” Arthur said.

The three unfamiliar Sarmatians on his left stood up immediately, with only a slight bow of the head at each introduction.

“Name’s Lamorak of the Aorsi.”

“Domar of the Siraces tribe.”

“Gaheris of the Basilea tribe.”

All three men proudly wore the armor, braids, and tattoos of their people. While Lamorak looked more like a heavy-hitter, similar in body type to Dagonet, the other two older men reminded Lancelot of Gawain and Galahad with the calluses of long-swords on their right hands, and the easy familiarity in their battle stances, shoulders brushing against one another in deference.

These particular Sarmatians were at least five years older than Lancelot and his friends, which explained their unfamiliarity.

Arthur nodded in greeting to each of them as they sat down, before looking expectantly at the Romans. One Roman took a long swig of his drink and scowled but stood up anyway, gesturing to the solemn man beside him as well.

His words were slightly slurred as he spoke, but there was an air of respectful deference to his tone as well. “My name is Festus and this is my brother Silvanus. We have been soldiers in the Roman army of the North for over ten years.”

“As have I,” stated the last officer deeply as he stood, glancing meaningfully at Arthur. His hair was completely grey, and face wrinkled, but he stood with the weight and power of a man half his age. “My name is Aulus. I served with your father. I knew him well as I know you, Lucius Artorius Castus.”

Arthur sat up straighter in his chair, glancing sharply at the man in reprimand before nodding. Then he turned to the rest as the three Romans sat back down.

As one, Lancelot and the other Sarmatians stood up, hands clasped behind their backs in easy openness.

“I am Lancelot du Lac,” he recited, refusing to reveal his tribe. He kept his secrets where he could.

“Galahad and Gawain of the tribe of Roxolani,” Gawain announced, brushing shoulders with Galahad in obvious camaraderie.

“Bors of the Bastaria tribe.”

“Dagonet of the Bastaria tribe.”

“Tristan,” was the stoic introduction from the silent scout with hard, glinting eyes that refused any other questions.

Arthur didn’t bat an eye before nodding once in acknowledgement to each of them.

There was a slight pause as they settled back down, and Lancelot caught Bedwyr looking at Tristan with an unreadable expression, sparkling intensity in those blue eyes. 

With an exasperated look, Arthur leaned over and whispered something in Bedwyr’s ear that had the boy shake himself and stand up with all the seriousness of a statue.

“Bedwyr of the Alani tribe.” He then sat down, obviously uncomfortable with the attention.

Finally, Arthur stood up and nodded to all of them. “And I am Lucius Artorius Castus, though you may call me Arthur. Because I have now been given control of Hadrian’s Wall, my superiors are asking that I assign myself personal guards for the remainder of my station. I have chosen the fourteen of you.”

The Romans murmured their surprise while the Sarmatians shared blatant looks of disbelief before lapsing into silence once again when Jols entered the room, carrying a pile of scrolls upon the platter.

Arthur moved from his chair to walk around the round table.

The Roman commander picked up a scroll from Jols’ arms and handed it to Lancelot first with warm eyes before moving to the next. “This scroll here carries my seal and letter, assigning you to this position. From here on out, you will answer only to me, unless we sit once again at this table as equals. I ask not only for your honesty but also your trust as we move forward into battle,” he stated.

Lancelot blinked, looking at the scroll in his hand. He wanted to claim it was lies, but this Arthur spoke with such sincerity that it was really hard to doubt.

The greatest question of all though remained a mystery, though Gawain voiced it a moment later. 

“My lord, if I may be so bold, why?” Gawain asked, confusion filling his tone and face. “Why us?’

Arthur didn’t even pause as he gave another scroll to a bewildered Festus before he answered. “I will be leading the campaign to clear our Northern roads from the Woads,” he stated. 

The men paused at that. To go into the North and begin an active campaign against the Woads on their own territory was as dangerous as possible - basically a death sentence to the soldiers in the line of duty. 

Arthur continued on, either unaware or unconcerned of the conflict in their minds. “It is a dangerous mission and while it is for the greater good, none here are forced to come with me. You may deny this assignment and I would be happy to task you to another centurion. Those who choose to accept will fight at my side in the campaign against the Woads.”

He stopped as he gave the last scroll to Lamorak before returning to his seat.

Tristan and Lancelot shared a glance when they both noted that Bedwyr had not been given a scroll.

“I have chosen the thirteen of you because you have proven in training and battle to have the fighting prowess and the necessary instincts to survive beyond the Wall. For this to work, your skills will come into play and I will use every resource we have and every ability of my own to make sure all of you survive to go home. This I do swear on the blood of my ancestors and the faith of my God,” Arthur finished. 

“Is that the only reason you chose us?’ Lancelot found himself asking, too shocked by the vow to keep the rampant resentment from his tone.

Technically, as Roman law and Sarmatian oath dictated, they could not refuse him.  He could order them to their deaths and there could be no resistance. 

Arthur looked at Lancelot sharply as though he knew the underlining question. “No, it is not. You have proven today that you are good men – men of honor who do not fear to question my decisions or my integrity.”

Pointedly, he looked at each of the Sarmatians and in his voice, they could hear the frustration and anger on their behalf. “I did not choose you because of your race. I cannot do anything for you in regards to your indentured service. It is beyond even my scant power though I have already tried to have you released. I wish that I could offer you more, but I cannot. At this moment, all I can give you is the chance to not just protect Rome but also learn to protect your people, your tribes, from their threats when you return home.”

Arthur paused then leaned forward, lacing his fingers under his chin, eyes dark and dangerous. “You are not servants, however, and you _will_ be treated with the full respect of your new station. Should you find any other Roman or soldier who does not agree with that, send them to me.”

Then he settled back into his seat with a sigh. “What I am asking of you could lead to your deaths, but it is _your_ decision to fight beside me in the end. No ancient oath or Roman law can take that away from you.”

The twelve men gathered considered their scrolls, weighing Arthur’s words.

Frowning, Lancelot saw Arthur share a slightly nervous look with Bedwyr who merely nodded back in complete reassurance. It seemed that the youngest one among them had already made his decision. 

To everyone’s surprise, it was Dagonet, who stood first and bowed to Arthur. “I accept this honor.”

There was a moment of shocked silence, broken only by Bors grumbling before he too stood up, clapping a hand on Dagonet’s shoulder. “Well, I can’t let this big lug hog all the glory. I accept as well.”

Gawain and Galahad shared a look of silent communication before they too swore their acceptance.

Tristan merely bowed his head and nodded, the scroll clasped tightly in his fist.

Around the table, the Romans and other Sarmatians put fists to their chest in oath to Arthur.

Lancelot took the longest, eyes weighing the young Roman centurion heavily. Could he really follow this man? This Roman who spouted beliefs of equality and freedom like he was speaking of his own God?

Decision made, Lancelot stood with eyes solemn and steadily staring into Arthur’s own grey orbs as he bowed. “I too swear allegiance.”

Next to Lancelot, Bedwyr rose from his seat as well, a rare smile brightening his delicate features as he faced Arthur. “You know my answer.”

Arthur nodded and finally rose from his seat, looking each in the eye before he bowed to them. “And I swear to you in return. I will do everything in my power to be the leader you deserve.”

The he straightened and smiled unabashedly at all of them. “Now, rise, my Knights. There is work to be done.”

That golden moment would be remembered eternally as the time when thirteen men bound their lives and swords to Arthur Castus, the youngest commander of Hadrian’s Wall, and he swore his own in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good day, good readers. Though it has been awhile, I do have several chapters ready to be posted. Please stay tuned and I look forward to your reviews.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Home is a notion that only nations of the homeless fully appreciate and only the uprooted comprehend.” 
> 
> ― Wallace Stegner, Angle of Repose
> 
> In which Tristan comes home and Bedwyr has an unwanted visitor.

**

_Na sir 's na seachainn an cath_  

Neither seek nor shun the fight (Old Gaelic saying)

Tristan hid a small sigh of relief when he saw the Wall appear in the distance before he spurred his horse into a gallop.

Above him, his hawk circled once, letting out a cry before sweeping down for a hunt.

Nearly ten years had passed since that oath was last made at a round table and in that time, Arthur and his Knights had battled long and hard in the North, until tales of their prowess and skills reached even Rome herself.

The Woads had long since learned to fear meeting Arthur and his Knights directly on the battlefield, retreating deeper back into the woods of the North and turning to tactics of ambushes in the brush.

It had taken a while before Arthur’s strategy had born fruit and now there was a semblance of stability in the South with Roman legions regularly patrolling the trade routes and sea lines to protect the citizens.

The fragile peace was not without cost, however, and already their numbers had long since dwindled. The first two years had been grimly fierce, paid in battle and blood, and Tristan had watched the Roman brothers – Festus and Silvanus – fall to Woads in defense of a settlement. 

Two years later, they had lost Lamorak and Aulus in a brutal battle as well though the Knights and Arthur had avenged them greatly in the next Woad encounter.

Now, with the spring approaching, the Knights would be gathering back to the Wall to discuss further tactics against the Woads.

This last scouting mission had been a particular long one for Tristan, tracking Woad movements in the Northeast section beyond the Wall. It appeared that a power was building there, and the different Woad tribes were syncing their attacks with greater forces. It was worrying, because if the Woads were gathered together, it could only be under one man.

Tristan nodded to Roman guards at the Wall as he approached, drawing his horse back to a trot. The soldiers shared nervous glances but opened the gate for him, obviously familiar with the silent, darkly-clothed scout.

The sharp-eyed Sarmatian snorted when he saw the soldiers nervously tense and bring their weapons closer as he passed. He knew he had a darker reputation than most of the Knights, given his silent demeanor and cold, precise battle-lust. His sword prowess itself had become legend and he had received title of the Hawk Demon among others from the Woads.

As he stopped his horse in the courtyard, Tristan whistled once loudly into the evening sky then waited.

The various people wandering the courtyard cast him a glance but other than that, continued on their way.

Above them all, his hawk screeched once before banking in the wind over the Wall and landing on his outstretched arm, chirping to him in greeting.

He cooed at her under his breath and reached up to pet her breast feathers with a crook of a finger. “How’s my girl, eh? No rabbit tonight, I take it.”

She nipped at his fingers in retaliation and Tristan bit back a fond smile.

“Tristan!”

The scout turned and looked to find most of the Knights gathered at the tavern, including Jols, who was walking up to him.

In a single fluid movement, Tristan swung off his horse, handing the reigns to Jols, with his hawk still firmly on his arm. Jols simply took the reins of the horse and grinned.

“Welcome back,” he said and Tristan nodded impassively in greeting. “Most of the Knights have returned. Arthur is in his quarters right now so you don’t have to report right away. Come join us for drink, eh?”

Tristan paused then nodded again. After a month of travel, the thought of ale was just too tempting to pass up. With a sweet nothing in her ear, Tristan threw his scouting partner into the air to hunt before he wandered over to the tavern.

He narrowly avoided the stampeding herd of Bors’ bastard children just as he arrived.

Looking around, he spotted Bors and Dagonet in a heated discussion – or more likely, just Bors in a heated discussion with Dagonet listening stoically. Gawain and Galahad were off to the side, playing dice with a group of Romans. Ever flirtatious Lancelot had a giggling woman in his lap, with two others next to them, drinking pints.

“Tristan!” Vanora called, coming up with a pint for him. He took it gladly with a nod of thanks.

She put a hand on his arm and smiled, but there was a bite to it that had Tristan worried. “So good to see you back! Perhaps now that you’re here, you could help my big lug of a lover with his fighting because he apparently forgot to duck when he was out there.”

“Oi!” Bors cried out, having obviously heard her. He barreled up to her, wrapping an arm tightly around Vanora’s waist. “Now, why would you say that, my little flower?”

She squeaked then whacked his arm, a hard look in her eyes. “Because you were stupid enough to get hurt out there. You obviously need the extra lesson,” she scowled before stalking back into the kitchens, an apologetic Bors trailing after her.

From the back, Tristan noted that Bors did have a particularly nasty blow to the back of his temple.

“Don’t worry,” Dagonet said, coming up behind Tristan. “She’s just scared. We ran into an ambush on the way back from our patrol. One of the Woads got a lucky swing in with a branch. Knocked him clean out. Good news is that Bors has a hard head, so it barely hurt him. We already knew that though.”

Tristan smirked slightly at that before Dagonet swung an arm around his shoulder, guiding them both back to the tables.

“Come, we can discuss Bors’ stupidity over a pint,” he said.

On the way over, Tristan greeted Gawain and Galahad, who both nodded back at him, before he sat down at the table where an obviously tipsy Lancelot had a woman, sucking at his throat, in his arms.

Tristan and Dagonet both rolled their eyes, blatantly ignoring the love entanglement and turning their attention to their ale.

“Oi, Tristan!” Lancelot called, from underneath woman’s kisses. The younger knight had a smirk on his face as Tristan raised an eyebrow. “Welcome back.”

Tristan raised his pint in greeting before taking a large gulp as Lancelot turned back to his lover.

Finally, after he drunk a bit of his fill, the scout turned to Dagonet. “So, what news here at the Wall?” he asked casually.

Dagonet eyed him before he sighed. “We lost Domarr and Gaheris,” he said bluntly, because the large Sarmatian was never a man to mince words or bad news really.

Tristan froze, face blank and jaw tense as he stared.

“How?” he asked, voice distant even as his fists clenched at his sides.  “When?”

Two more Sarmatian knights lost one year before their discharge, never to see home again. The injustice of it made Tristan’s stomach swirl in fierce, familiar anger that cooled into a bone-weary grief. 

“There was a Woad raid in the South during their patrol two weeks ago. They were able to save the settlement but they both took arrows to the chest in the end,” Dagonet explained, tone unforgiving and harsh to Tristan’s ears.  “We’ve already buried them in the cemetery if you want to pay your respects.”

Tristan growled lightly, trying to let all of the grief and anger out into a single breath. “How’s Arthur taking it?”

Dagonet shrugged. “You know Arthur. Every wound we get and every life taken is his own personal burden. He’s hold up in his quarters now. Has been for days. Lancelot tried to get him out, but he’s not really listening to anyone.”

Tristan nodded in understanding, eyes distant as he took another sip of ale.

It had always been like that. Their commander felt almost _too_ deeply for the people he led. Always worrying about their safety, always strategizing for ways to keep them from dying on the field of battle. It was humbling, but also made the usually detached scout fiercely proud and loyal to this Arthur who wept over fallen soldiers like they were his own flesh and blood. Tristan wouldn’t follow him otherwise.

Tristan and Dagonet sat in glum silence for a moment, reminiscing on their lost brethren and letting the chatter of the tavern wash over them.  

Jols joined their table after a while, having put Tristan’s horse in the stable for a good rub down and rest. And the three men started to talk of other news on the different war fronts as well as the gossip currently wading through the Wall.

Apparently, Vanora was pregnant again.

“That makes ten, doesn’t it?” Jols asked, brow furrowed in confusion as he glanced at the kitchen where Vanora was currently browbeating Bors, while their pack of children giggled on the sidelines.

Dagonet looked flummoxed at the question for moment while Tristan just shrugged in answer.

It never ceased to entertain any of the Knights that the small red-headed woman had the temper and sheer gall to match a dragon. She cowed most of them to be honest, and not even Arthur bothered to stop the woman when she dragged Bors home early from training for dinner.

He had no idea how many they had. Bors loved children and was surprisingly great with them as was Dagonet. They both had a pack of the little bastards following them around like a trail of ducklings whenever they were stationed at the Wall. 

Tristan suspected that they had adopted some of the other orphans as well, but he didn’t feel the urge to say anything about it. 

“Oh, and Tristan,” Jols said casually after a moment of silence. Tristan raised an eyebrow in question, taking a bite from his apple as Jols started to smirk. “Bedwyr’s back as well.”

Tristan’s chewing slowed and he simply stared at both of them, including Dagonet who hid a grin into his mug.

“Bastards,” the dark-haired scout muttered. Then he casually stood up to his feet, downing his drink in one gulp before wandering off.

“He’s in his usual quarters,” Tristan heard Jols shout out behind him, and he barely resisted the urge to huff, even as a hot feeling pooled into his stomach and his steps quickened.

In silence, he trailed across the courtyard, barely acknowledging any greetings with more than a nod before slipping inside the barn which housed the Knights’ horses.

Carefully, Tristan closed the door behind him and blinked blearily into the darkness.

The stable house smelled of hay and horse, and in the dim light, Tristan could make out his own steed – Tabiti - in her stall, happily munching on some hay. He paused to caress her when she reached out and nuzzled his arm before he stalked to the ladder in the shadowed right corner. It led up to the hayloft and he climbed on silent feet then hauled himself up into the overhang.

He paused when a shadow lifted its head at his arrival and stared at him with bright amber eyes.

It was Cavall – Bedwyr’s wolf pup, now grown fully into a massive wild brute of dark grey fur and fangs. The wolf eyed him warily before laying his head back down at his master’s side.

Knowing that he had the mutt’s approval, the scout drifted and then knelt near the cot, feeling a tight knot in his chest loosening as his dark eyes beheld the sight of the sleeping figure of Bedwyr nestled within a makeshift cot of blankets and hay.

The boy – no, man now - was injured again. A deep cut below his right eye and a blossoming bruise on his forehead. There were smudges of dirt mixed with blood on his face, and with an alarmed glance, Tristan could also make out bloody bandages underneath the youth’s shirt and around his neck.

Suddenly, the sleeping figure breathed and moved in his sleep, shifting his body to the side until Tristan could see the outline of his face from the light of the barn’s window.

Tristan felt his shoulders relax minutely, dark eyes watching that delicate pink mouth as he breathed deeply in.

The stoic scout had never known what to make of the swirling tumult of emotions that swept him whenever he was in contact with the young raven-haired knight. Ever since they had first met, Tristan found his eyes always tracking Bedwyr – following that graceful figure like a hawk and its prey.

He wasn’t the only one either, much to his annoyance.

Over the past ten years, Bedwyr had blossomed in every sense of the word.

Where most men lost their feminine features in their teenage years – growing stubble and building muscle – Bedwyr had become even more delicate, almost fae-like in his youthful looks.

Long eyelashes, shaggy raven-black hair filled with feathers and braids, high cheekbones and a pointed chin which accentuated a slender neck, narrow waist with long limbs, delicately pointed ears that twitched at every movement in the forest.

He had grown taller, but only to Tristan’s shoulder, and his body had remained simply toned with hard, wiry muscles sliding beneath tan, freckled skin. His voice – light and airy like the wind – had deepened only slightly over the years.

It was the eyes that haunted Tristan though – deep blue eyes that carried hidden depths and masked every feeling behind a cold surface like an iced-over lake or frozen river.

Tristan had heard the rumors - both in the Wall and out.

Rumors of the most beautiful Knight whose splendor captured the heart of every man and woman he came across.

Rumors of a Knight as wild and unpredictable as a winter storm, and just as merciless in battle.

Rumors that this Knight was a woman who chose to give up her sex and race to serve at Arthur’s side.

Those wild tales had made Bedwyr laugh loudly in the tavern one night, before he chugged five pints of ale and stole three tavern wenches to bed. When the women sung praises of his prowess in the sheets the next morning, no one repeated the rumor again while Bedwyr just smirked idly by. 

For some inexplicable reason, it had made Tristan head to the archery for a brutal bout of training if only to get tumultuous, unreasonable thoughts out of his head.

No words compared to seeing Bedwyr in person though. Politicians stopped mid-sentence, magistrates walked into walls, priests made signs of the cross to ward away temptation. Tristan had once seen a Woad struck down in battle because he had stopped dead in his tracks to stare at Bedwyr.

Not that he blamed him.

Some of the Roman legionnaires had whispered the legends of Eros, Ganymede, and Narcissus whenever Bedwyr walked by – their eyes tracking his movements with obvious lust and want and envy. Tavern women, nobles’ wives, and soldiers gathered in crowds to watch him in training – blatantly admiring the very grace and poise of the youngest Sarmatian knight.

Tristan didn’t think he’d ever see a creature – man or woman – more beautiful in fight. Every movement was effortless agility and precision with a wild bloodlust to match. In battle, the scout never had to look far, for Bedwyr would always appear at his back, their blades matching in unison as they slayed their enemies with casual, well-practiced movements.

Though Bedwyr obviously preferred the spear and the short bow, especially when riding into battle, his sword skills were on par with Tristan’s own and even the Knights themselves would sit on the sidelines to admire their spars.

He’d missed the spars, just as much as he’d missed Bedwyr. They’d only seen each other a handful of times over the last year, separated by different missions across the territory. 

If he was hard-pressed – which was not often – Tristan still would not be able to describe what he felt for the raven-haired young man.

All of the other Sarmatian knights had taken to Bedwyr like a collection of overprotective older brothers. Dagonet was always at the youngest knight’s side, helping him with his horse and teaching him the ways of unarmed combat in battle. Bors had taken him under his wing as well, inviting him to games with the children, and dinners with Vanora.

Galahad and Gawain had taught the youth archery, for he struggled severely in the beginning while they sparred and tested his swordsmanship on multiple opponents.

Lancelot, much to Tristan’s ire, decided to teach their youngest friend the secrets of women, dragging him out to taverns and bars for nights on end.

But Tristan - At first, he had been paired with Bedwyr more often than not on scouting missions. The youth had been good at tracking – almost as good as Tristan himself - and could spot out trails and roads that other hunters twice his age wouldn’t see.

He’d been impressed - grudgingly so - and had admitted after the first three years of familiarity that he preferred the youngest knight’s company to any other.

Bedwyr was silent and observant, strangely patient in some ways while childishly playful in others. He had a habit of seeing through even the most delicate of lies with little tolerance for any bigotry. It was why Arthur favored him at his side during meetings with Roman magistrates or nobles.

The young knight handled children with gentle care, but could channel his bloodlust into a terrifying skill on the battlefield.

He told raunchy jokes with the soldiers, but could scold them like youngsters in defense of another. He was fiercely – almost stupidly - loyal, often found in bare-knuckle fights with other Romans over even the slightest word against Arthur or the other Knights.

Tristan didn’t know when the affection for his fellow scout had grown beyond that of his feelings towards the others knights. All he did know of complete certainty was that the scout silently worried whenever his raven-haired friend wasn’t near. His vision turned red when the knight was hurt, and his blood pounded in his ears whenever Bedwyr’s face would brighten with a rare smile aimed at him.

It was a feeling far more than ‘companion’ or ‘brother’.

It was dangerous and addicting and wrong and Tristan probably should have abandoned this ship long ago, but even so, he just couldn’t be pried away.

His heart sped up slightly as Bedwyr shifted once again, before his blue eyes fluttered open, immediately catching Tristan’s.

“Tristan,” Bedwyr breathed and Tristan sat down next to him on the floor of the hayloft, crossing his legs to settle in as he fought the shiver running up his spine at Bedwyr’s voice.

“Hey, lad,” he said gruffly, though a smile was quirking at his lips. “Where you been, eh?”

Bedwyr shifted in his nest before rising slightly to lean on his elbow and fully face him. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? Where’ve you been, Tristan?”

Tristan shrugged. “Oh, around,” he said playfully, eyeing Bedwyr’s scowl in delight before he elaborated. “Arthur sent me northeast to spy on some of the Woads.”

 Bedwyr nodded, hiding a yawn beyond a bandaged hand, and Tristan frowned slightly. “Where’d you get those wounds then?”

The young Knight stilled and looked down at his injuries as though just remembering they were there, then blushed. “I was ambushed, coming back from the patrols. Bors had it worse though.”

Tristan snorted quietly. Bors never had it worse and Tristan could suspect why. Nothing could really keep that big burly Sarmatian down. He had the stamina of an ox in the presence of female in heat.

“I saw Bors actually,” he casually mentioned, watching Bedwyr wince. “Looks like the rumors are true. He does have a head of stone.”

Bedwyr looked amused at that, but settled back into his cot with only a slight grimace. Apparently, there were even more injuries underneath those clothes. Tristan couldn’t decide if he wanted to scold Bedwyr for getting reckless or silently murder Bors and Dagonet for letting him be hurt in the first place.

He settled for yawning, feeling the weight of days of travel catching up to him.

Bedwyr tossed the dark-haired knight a sympathetic glance before patting the space next to him.  “Come, _shirkra **[1]**_ ,” he said. “I know the first thing I want after a long scouting mission is sleep.”

Tristan waited a heartbeat, dark eyes unfathomably heavy as he thought about it, but the bed of hay looked too tempting and his limbs felt like lead and Bedwyr was lying there with a welcoming look in his eye. He grunted his affirmation before lying down on the other side of Cavall and settling on top the blankets. 

They laid there in comfortable silence; listening to the wind whistle out the window and the horses moving in the stalls below.

“Domarr and Gaheris are dead,” Bedwyr said after a moment, voice emotionless in the darkness.

Tristan bit back a sigh, feeling more tired than before. “I know.”

There was a pause. “They were supposed to get their papers this winter.”

Tristan shifted to look at Bedwyr, but the lad’s face was blocked by Cavall’s body so he merely leaned his head back and nodded. “Aye, I know, lad.”

“I’m supposed to get my papers tomorrow.”

Tristan went still, body tense as a dark feeling - a mix of sorrow, guilt, and fear - filled his chest. It made Cavall sit up and look at him. He patted the mutt’s head absently in a show of comfort. 

Bedwyr waited for a moment, as though expecting the scout to respond, before the younger man huffed. “They’ll send me back.” It sounded like a confession.

This time, the scout couldn’t hide his grimace at the thought. 

Home. The Knights spoke of it often – of beautiful, distant lands, of families lost to be found again, of unbridled freedom.

Tristan didn’t have a home really - just an empty wagon filled with dead bodies and the remnants of a raid 13 years ago. He didn’t know what he would do after he got his papers. Maybe become a mercenary; maybe join Bors and Dagonet in their quest for a home on this island. The Knights had discussed it at length and the topic had come up more and more frequently as their discharge date neared.

Bedwyr, though – he had never joined in these discussions. When the Knights spoke of home and freedom, he would go quiet and distant in a corner or slip away altogether.

Tristan didn’t know what to make of it.

And he’d never spoken of it with him - perhaps because he was afraid – afraid that his best friend and brother-in-arms really did have somewhere to return to and would leave him alone.

It made something in his stomach curl in despair, begging and pleading and howling dangerously with unspoken want.

Bedwyr was home and freedom for Tristan – for this impassive, un-tethered scout.

Tristan wanted to say that – to say that he couldn’t imagine a future without Bedwyr at his side – but the words stopped in his throat and he felt paralyzed in the face of the yawning gap that had opened between him and the raven-haired knight.

Eventually, Tristan heard Bedwyr’s breathing even out in the darkness, and Tristan matched it, filling his head with the scent of pine and fresh grass and hay in the spring and feeling - not for the first time - that he would be lost without it.

He dreamed that night of a woman with Bedwyr’s eyes and Bedwyr’s voice, echoing his name.

The two scouts and Cavall rose in the early hours of dawn when a voice called up from the stable below.

“Bedwyr! Arthur requests your immediate presence at the Table!” It was Jols.

Bedwyr groaned aloud, before moving out from under Tristan’s arm that had, somehow, latched on to him the night before. Tristan blearily opened his eyes and watched as Bedwyr attached his sword and put on his boots. Cavall yawned as well, panting slightly before also stretching and standing up on his paws.

“You can stay here, alright?” Beddwyr said, just as he finished tying his sash.

Tristan growled incoherently at him while blinking drowsily in the morning light.

With a fond look that had always made Tristan’s heart flip oddly, Bedwyr huffed again at him, before turning and slipping quietly away down the ladder, the ever loyal Cavall right on his heels.

Tristan waited all of a moment before trailing after him like a shadow. He caught up to Bedwyr just in time to see him enter the door to Arthur’s Court. The impassive scout dismissed the two guards at the door with only a wave before opening it slightly to hear the voices inside. Next to him, Cavall was sitting on his haunches, looking at Tristan with his head tilted in question.

“Ah, Bedwyr, good morning,” Tristan heard Arthur say from inside. Their commander sounded tired and worn, like he had come fresh from the battlefield. “This is Bishop Drustus.”

“Yes,” Bedwyr replied, his voice as cold as a moonless night and slightly strained. “We’ve met.”

There was an awkward pause and Tristan could almost see Arthur trying to work out how they could have met before he continued. “Yes, well, Bishop Drustus is the carrier of your discharge papers. On behalf of Rome, we would like to . . .”

“Please hold on a moment, Arthur,” an older voice, thick with a Roman accent, interrupted. Tristan suspected this was the bishop. “If you do not mind, I would like to speak with Sir Bedwyr alone.”

This time, the pause was heavy with awkward tension, before Arthur gritted out stiffly. “Very well. Please call on me if you need me. I’ll be in my quarters.”

Tristan had but a moment to back away from the door, before Arthur barreled out of it, a dangerous and threatening look in his grey-green eyes, obviously aimed at the bishop.

He stopped and stared at Tristan then Cavall for a moment, before the two men came to a silent agreement and went back to the door, opening it slightly to hear the discussion inside.

“Now, Bedwyr the _Beauty_ ,” they heard Bishop Drustus say. Tristan shared a dark look with Arthur. “Have you given any more thought to Rome’s offer?”

“No, I have not, because my answer has not changed,” Bedwyr said stiffly.

“Oh? Think of it, my boy. You could have it all. Wealth. Power. Prestige. All of that would be available to you as a part of the papal army. Now, will you come with me to Rome?”

Arthur breathed deeply, and then leaned closer to hear. 

“To share your bed?” Bedwyr asked dryly. “I think you made your point clear, Bishop Drustus. If I came with you, it would not be for my skills on the battlefield.”

Tristan sucked in a quick breath, eyes hard and dangerous while Arthur’s jaw went tense with fury. As though feeling the anger, Cavall growled under his breath.

The bishop chuckled darkly and they heard a slight shuffle as he stalked around the table.  “Indeed. Well, there is no doubt that you are a splendor, child. Rumors of your beauty and your skill have reached even Rome. The Pope himself has often inquired about this Sarmatian Knight who is – as the Northern soldiers say – Eros Reborn.’”

“Mere exaggerations, I assure you,” Bedwyr stated, as he shifted around the table, obviously avoiding the stalking bishop.

The bishop hummed noncommittally. “I doubt that. I find that the rumors if anything do not do you justice.”

There was a stony pause before Drustus barked out in obvious frustration. “Really, child? Is there nothing you desire? I can give you gold and jewels. I can clothe you in purple robes and silver crowns. The Pope himself would bless you. What more could you want?”

Still, Bedwyr remained silent.  

The bishop quieted and when he spoke again, it was heavy with implicit menace. “Perhaps, I should try a different tactic.” There was a shuffle of paper and wood. “For example, how badly would you like your freedom?”

Inside his mind, Tristan howled with fury - a dark, writhing animal coursing through his veins - and from the bloodlust in his eyes, Arthur shared his rage at such a threat.

“I have done my service,” Bedwyr stated steadily, with only a slight strain in his voice.

“Have you?” the bishop crooned. “Because according to me, you have not. In fact, it states right here that you have at least three years left of servitude to Rome – or it will, if you do not agree to my offer.”

“And what would Arthur say to that? He knows that my service to Rome has ended.”

Drustus actually had the gall to laugh. “What could Arthur do? Go against a bishop of Rome? He is a soldier on the edge of the civilized world. He has no weight, no authority, in the real scheme of things.”

Bedwyr remained silent, and when he spoke, his voice was filled with casual threats and a cold, mocking menace. 

“You don’t understand, do you?” They heard Bedwyr shift as though to walk around the table. “No matter what those papers say, the Sarmatians have _never_ served Rome. Always, we have followed the dragon, not the eagle[2]. Here, Arthur’s authority is the only one that matters.”

Next to Tristan, Arthur flushed, his eyes growing soft at the blatant loyalty in Bedwyr’s voice even as the youngest knight continued, voice nonchalant.

“What is it you are offering me?” Bedwyr asked, a certain underlying intent in the words.

The bishop paused then threw every dark weight and warning into his voice. “Come with me to Rome. You will live there in gilded comfort for the rest of your days. Or stay here and perish like all of the Sarmatian dogs before you. Life or death. Those are your options.”

Bedwyr took a breath, and then answered with all the determination of a knight on the battlefield. “Very well.”

They heard a movement, a scuffle then the cackling of what sounded like paper burning in the fireplace, just as Drustus yelled.  “You?! Those were your discharge papers, the only thing that could free you from this place?! And you burned them? Why?!”

There was a pause. “My fate has never been my own. But it will never be yours either. I have made my decision.”

Shocked silence from the bishop stilled the chamber. “You – you would stay here in this place of Hell, when I offer you freedom and wealth beyond your wildest dreams,” the bishop exclaimed. “For love of God, why? Your skills - your beauty – are wasted here among such savages.”

“Are you saying I am not a savage myself?” Bedwyr chuckled darkly. “You forget, Bishop Drustus, that I am Sarmatian, just as I am a Knight. I live to fight just as I fight to live. Neither you nor your God could change that.”

“Blasphemy! I should have you burned for such a thing!”

There was a rustle of cloth as Bedwyr shrugged. “Feel free to do so. You would not be the first to try.”

 “You will suffer. I will make sure of it. I will trap you here in this frozen pagan land until the end of your natural life. You will _never_ return home so long as I live. And if you desert, I will have you hunted for the rest of your days. No safe passage will ever be given to you in the Roman empire.” Drusus’ words nearly shook with rage.

“So be it,” Bedwyr said, his voice absolute in the face of such a threat. There was another rustle as they heard the youngest knight bow. “If that is all, Bishop Drustus, I will leave you to it then. You have my answer. Safe travels back to Rome.”

Tristan and Arthur shared a dark look, before each took a step back then waited in the hall until Bedwyr emerged.

His blue eyes widened then softened when he saw their thunderous looks.

“I suppose you cannot forget you heard that, eh?” Bedwyr asked cautiously.

If anything, Tristan’s face turned stonier while Arthur’s jaw tensed again with anger.

“How can you even ask that of us?” Arthur hissed, grabbing Bedwyr’s arm before pulling him away into another room with Cavall and Tristan trailing close behind them.

“What was that in there, Bedwyr?” Arthur asked after he shut the door. “Why did you not come to me? How could you just give up your freedom to such a man?”

The commander’s voice was raw and confused and enraged like all of his faith was shattering.

_Perhaps it is,_ Tristan thought bitterly as he took a stand in the shadows near the door. _Perhaps this shining example of Rome is not what Arthur thought it would be._

Bedwyr seemed to understand because he carefully looked at the two soldiers before sighing.

“Arthur, you could not have helped with this,” he explained, and Arthur jerked as though struck. But Bedwyr wasn’t finished, blue eyes unforgiving in the light of the room. “He would not have released me. He holds a higher authority than you do. If you had challenged him, or if I had, our threats would hold no weight and would only serve to alienate us – and Briton - further from Rome. I made my decision. I will not be kept sheathed like a useless blade.”

“But what of your home?” Arthur asked, his grey eyes harsh and demanding. “Would you give that up without even a fight?”

“Not at the cost it would be.” Bedwyr paused before looking at Arthur straight in the eye. “Arthur, you once asked me what my future held at the end of all this. The truth is, I never planned to leave here – at least, not before all of you. I made my peace with that long ago.”

“What? But what about your family? Your homeland?” Arthur asked, unyielding as though making sure that this was what the young man truly had wanted.

Bedwyr merely shook his head, black locks hiding his expression slightly. “This is my home and fate now, just as you are my brothers. I would not leave your sides willingly. Not now. Not ever again.”

Arthur paused, eyes probing and intense but Bedwyr’s gaze remained steady, his body relaxed and still in the room’s dim light.

“What would you have done if you had received your discharge papers?” Arthur finally queried, a casual curiosity in his tone. 

Bedwyr looked thoughtful for a moment. “I would have come to you and offered my services once again. You’d all get killed within a month without me around.”

Arthur barked a laugh, a tension leaving his shoulders, even as Tristan bit back a smirk.

The commander carefully considered the younger knight, before clapping a hand upon his shoulder. “Very well, Bedwyr. If this is your decision, then I will make sure that you remain here with us for as long as I am able.”

Bedwyr bowed his head, even as dark-eyed Tristan in the background nodded slightly in obvious agreement. “Thank you, Arthur.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment before Arthur coughed, breaking the sudden tension awkwardly. “So, about the Bishop, what would you suggest I do, Bedwyr?”

Bedwyr merely shrugged. “Just send him back to Rome. But do not let the other Knights hear of this.”

Arthur winced while Tristan merely exhaled a laugh, the anger dissipating from his form. “Indeed, Lancelot would bury the bishop in an abandoned grave for such a betrayal,” Tristan noted, eyes glinting with a battle fire in the light. He wouldn’t mind such an outcome.

“That’s nothing compared to what Bors and Dagonet would do,” Bedwyr said dryly, and all three men grimaced collectively.

Those two burly Sarmatians had very little patience for people who propositioned their precious adopted brother Bedwyr. The last man who tried to force it had ended up with two broken hands, a dent in his skull, and one severely twisted leg. He still couldn’t eat solid foods. It wasn’t pretty.

Arthur nodded in grim agreement. “Very well. We are not done with this discussion, but I will handle Bishop Drustus. He will be gone by morning.”

“Good,” Bedwyr nodded earnestly.

Arthur went to the door, before he hesitated. “Are you sure about this, Bedwyr? After this, there is no return.”

The raven-haired young man merely stared, a hard but determined glint in his blue eyes. “I am sure, Arthur. There is no where I would rather be.”

Arthur considered the youth for a moment, before a fond smile entered his face. “Yes, there is no where we’d rather have you either.”

Tristan watched as Bedwyr blushed lightly before the young man bowed his head to Arthur when the commander left the room.

His delicate face carefully guarded, Bedwyr finally turned to look at Tristan and the two friends stared at each other, the tension as taut as a bowstring.

Then the scout broke the moment, leaning forward and lightly touching the other knight in the shoulder. Bedwyr shivered under his fingers like a caged bird, his blue gaze entranced by Tristan’s dark burning eyes, and then Tristan smirked under his fringe, retreating and heading toward the door.

“Come, lad,” he drawled easily, feeling his anger cool a little at Bedwyr’s flushed appearance. “Let’s go for a spar, eh? I think we could both use one.”

Bedwyr’s answering shy smile was one that Tristan would never tire of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Old Persian word for “Red-tailed hawk” famously known in Ancient Persia (land of Sarmatia)for sport and hunting http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/bazdari-or-bazyari-lit
> 
> [2] Artorius Castus was known to carry a dragon as a symbol on his banner while the regular Roman legions wore the symbol of the eagle.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."
> 
> \- Ian Maclaren 
> 
> In which a Bishop arrives and Woads die beneath Bedwyr's blade.

**

_Am fear a gheibh gach latha ba\s, 's e as fhearr a bhitheas beo\_

The man who finds death each day is the man who lives best (Old Gaelic saying)

(Two years later)

Bedwyr – formerly known as Aga - spied the Roman caravan with relief and more than a bit of trepidation. Supposedly - and for their sake, she really hoped it did - the caravan in front of her carried the discharge papers for her brothers as well as Arthur’s ticket to Rome.

As the caravan moved along the Southern road, Bedwyr followed a little bit behind while staying hidden in the eastern side of the brush.

There was a group of twenty Roman soldiers with ten on horseback remaining and the rest traveling on foot. A nervous-looking monk sat on the wagon as well, but she barely gave him any thought.

It was not nearly enough guards for someone as important as a bishop, especially with the increase of Woad attacks in the South.

Already, she had had to defend the caravan from three different Woad attacks, with the last group having more than five of the rebel Britons in full frontal assault. She had caught them all before they left the forest line, but it had been tricky and she was injured on her side from the graze of a thrown axe.

Carefully, the young woman-knight trailed the large Roman group, keeping astride Tamatahra with easy practice. The black horse moved seamlessly through the brush and wood, ears twitching slightly as they kept to the shadow of the forest line. Her wolf Cavall trotted along next to them like a shadow in the mist, pausing every now and again to sniff the air.

Suddenly, Tamatahra whinnied softly and Cavall glanced up, his grey ears angled toward the west. Bedwyr cursed aloud, whipping her head and narrowing her eyes into the shadows just in time to catch a glimpse of blue-colored flesh. 

 _Woads_ , she thought, heart beating wildly. Damn - and the other Knights weren’t supposed to arrive for another half-day at least.

Sure enough just as the thought passed her mind, there was a loud commotion as one Roman soldier fell from an arrow and a large pack of Woads appeared out of the brush on the other side, attacking the caravan with arrows, knives, and spears alike.

Instantly, Bedwyr brought Tamatahra to a full-speed gallop out of the forest line, and pulled out her short bow in one swift movement. At her side, Cavall ran at full speed and howled deeply into the morning air.

There was a pause on the battlefield – from Romans and Woads alike – when Cavall howled and she saw the Woads shift in their attacks, now aiming for her as the larger threat.

Victory favored the fast and in a flash, arrows were in her hand then in the air, as she took careful precise aim toward the numerous enemies, even while riding on horseback. She spotted three archers in the trees and felled them each with one in the eye – Tristan’s trick - before she had even reached the battleground.

Astride her horse, Bedwyr kept to firing arrows while still running through the Woads to get to the caravan. After ten more fell by her bow and three raiders were barreled down by Tamatahra, she was out of arrows but finally at the side of the bishop’s wagon. The Romans had yet to notice her – which was not surprising given their current struggle with the Woads.

Carefully, she stored her bow to her pack, and then withdrew her blade from her back in a single, fluid motion. With a snort, Tamatahra charged through the Woads again, trampling at least four while three heads felt the end of her sword, blood spotting her fingers.

With practiced ease, she leapt off of Tamatahra, giving him a whistle to run back to safety, before standing still in the middle of the fray. Cavall came to a halt next to her - a silent, deadly shadow with flashing fangs.

There was a pause, as a circle of Woads took in their new opponent. Face blank, she raised her sword slightly into the air, its hilt clutched easily in one hand, and her body relaxed but ready.

With a battle-roar, the first Woad attacked, raising his axe in the air. Without looking, she slipped easily beneath his blade while sliding her sword up and across his throat in a single fluid movement. He fell in a blink and a cascade of blood just as Cavall blurred forward at her back, leaping at the throat of another attacker.

There was a moment of shock either from the speed or the method of the death, but then the rest of the Woads pounced and Bedwyr found herself in the familiar dance of blade and battle. She breathed evenly, the scent of blood filling her mind, the cries of the fallen muffled in her ears, and her movements turned fluid almost hypnotic as she dodged and stepped and blocked while slaying with the single-minded intensity of her ancestors.

The battle haze lifted for a moment long enough for her to notice that all the Woads near her were dead, just as a new wave of blue-tattooed men burst through the forest line. With a feral grin, she turned to face them, realizing belatedly that the Romans had already suffered heavy losses and they were severely outnumbered.

She moved closer to the wagon, just in time to raise her sword casually, blocking an arrow aimed at its entrance.

There was a gasp from the inside and she guessed that it was the bishop who had seen her little skill.

“Please stay inside, Bishop Germanus,” she said in perfect Latin, while blocking another arrow from the wagon. “We will protect you.”

She paused and whistled for Cavall, who appeared out of nowhere on silent paws. She clicked her tongue and the bloody wolf-mutt sat down at the front of the wagon in perfect guard dog behavior, ears forward, and body tense. She briefly noted that the monk she had seen before was hiding and praying beneath the wagon, but shrugged her shoulders, not caring either way. 

Above the noise of the battle, Bedwyr heard the loud screech of a hawk and for a moment, she could not stop the small, feral grin just as the Sarmatian war-cry of her brothers reached her ears.

Her attention was drawn back as five more Woads shouted, running towards her with bloody weapons. They moved to attack the wagon, and she barely paused, gliding through them with soundless feet and a steady blade, just as Arthur charged through the chaos with a roar, his red cape billowing in the wind.

Another arrow from the trees whizzed by, grazing the inside of her arm, before she could block it. She turned with a growl only to find the Woad archer, dead by Tristan’s arrow in his eye. She grinned once – battle-happy and content that he was there – before diving back into the fray, a bloodthirsty smile on her face that made the rest of the Woads pause.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noted Bors and Dagonet already on the ground and barreling through the enemy like roaring, maddened bulls. Gawain was being pulled from his horse, only to roll off his attacker and slay him with a knife and a mace to the chest. Nearby, a grim-faced Lancelot was carving his way through the mass with Woad blood arching in the air as his two sabers flashed and danced. Only Galahad remained on his horse, charging and trampling the raiders with all the grace and agility of the Sarmatian cavalry.  And of course, Arthur had stepped into the fray as well, his sword Excalibur gleaming in the mist as he methodically cut down any Woad in his way.

Bedwyr shifted her attention back to her own opponents, just in time to see three coming at all angles. She breathed in once, and then moved forward in a blur, aiming for necks and legs while blocking two swords and one spear.

She didn’t have to look for Tristan.

On any battlefield, she always knew where the impassive, silent knight was fighting. It was second-nature to her – the rush and frenzy of bloody combat cooling down to a quiet, steady dance at his side.

Sure enough, he was there close to her and circled by a few opponents, cutting them down with intense, agile precision.

She slipped seamlessly in next to him, slaying one Woad from the back just as Tristan shifted his stance to give her an opening at his side with a heavy glint in his dark eyes.

They didn’t acknowledge one another, just fell silently into old battle habits, blocking one sword raised or dodging one arrow or cutting down one more attacker, all at the other’s back.  Eventually, they stopped together, surrounded in a circle by dead bodies, sprayed by the blood of their enemies, and relaxing in the comfortable weight of the other’s presence.

Around them, the battle had grown quiet, and Bedwyr could make out Arthur staring down a red-haired Woad with full brunt of his intensity, a blood-covered Lancelot at his back. 

Steeling herself, Bedwyr turned and looked at Tristan, but the silent scout had already sheathed his sword with his back to her and was walking to where his horse Tabiti was waiting on the edge of the field.

Bedwyr resisted the urge to frown visibly.

Tristan had changed over the last couple of years. She didn’t know what to make of it, but he was stiff now in her presence, more guarded, and overall silent in his dealings with her.

“Oi, Bedwyr!” Gawain called. “Come over here. Your mangy mutt’s not letting anyone near the wagon. ‘s scaring the bishop.”

Bedwyr sighed internally but nodded and sheathed her sword. She wandered over to the wagon, grinning when she saw her Cavall snarling viciously at Bors and Gawain, both of whom were maintaining a healthy distance out of experience.

With a glance, she noticed a few dead Woads around the wagon, their throats ripped out.

“Cavall,” she called. Her wolf stopped snarling and perked his ears, before immediately trotting to her side. She scratched his muzzle, fishing a bit of venison jerky from the pouch on her belt. “Oh, now, who’s a good boy, eh? Those nasty bastards were no match for you, were they?”

Cavall merely wagged his tail, grinning while snacking on his treat. A slightly bloody Gawain and roughed-up Bors were smirking at her and she raised an eyebrow at them. “Well? You lot told me you would be here on the morrow.”

“Oh, aye, lad,” Bors grunted roughly, the smirk still on his face as he elbowed her. “But then you’d have had all of this fun to yourself. Couldn’t have that now, could we, Gawain?”

Gawain merely snorted, bending down to one of the dead Woads at his feet to get his knife. “No, not at all. Especially when a certain scout reminded us of the Woad attacks increasing lately and that our precious youngest knight was out there alone.”

Bedwyr shook her head, exasperated but slightly warmed by the thought that Tristan had tried to protect her. “And I’m sure the fact that the bishop was coming as well had nothing to do with it?”

Both Gawain and Bors grinned at that, but didn’t answer.

“Bors!” They turned and saw Arthur, striding toward them.

Bors grunted, angling his head toward the wagon. “’S a bloody mess, but the bishop’s alright. He’s in there.”

Arthur strode toward the caravan, pushing back the curtain to glance in.

Meanwhile, Bedwyr glanced around, noting with slight wariness that nearly all the Roman soldiers had returned to their horses and had arranged themselves into a half-circle surrounding the carriage and consequently her brothers. She casually stepped forward, putting herself between the Roman cavalry and her fellow Knights on the ground.

She - just as casually - took out a knife and started to flip it into the air. The Romans glanced at each other, while their horses shifted nervously, smelling the tension.

“God help us. What are they?” whispered the frightened mouse of a monk in horror as he stared at the dead Woads. It appeared he had decided to stop hiding from underneath the wagon.

Gawain muttered under his breath, “Your god doesn’t live here,” just as Bors answered, sardonically from his side, “Blue demons who eat Christians alive.”

He whipped around in dramatic flair, eyes narrowed and pointing at the monk. “You’re not a Christian, are you?!”

The poor man shakily clasped his hands together and started praying. Bedwyr hid back a snort.

Bors eyed him for a moment. “Does this really work?” he muttered as he copied the monk’s praying with a series of mumbling. After a moment, the burly Sarmatian opened his eyes and looked around then shrugged. “Nothing. Maybe I’m not doin’ it right.”

The monk started shaking harder and Bedwyr sighed, casually flipping her knife in the air again. “Oi, leave the poor man alone, Bors. He’s just been through a battle, the wee little thing.”

The monk turned and looked at her, his eyes wide. “Angel,” he whispered, and Bedwyr flinched, nearly missing her knife as it arced down.

Gawain and Bors burst out laughing. She scowled darkly at them, catching her knife mid-air and sheathing it.

“Give it up, Bedwyr,” Gawain snickered. “That’s goin’ to be everyone’s reaction when they see you ride in to save them.”

Bedwyr crossed her arms in a sulk and glared into the distance, muttering curses under her breath.

Behind the wagon, she could see Tristan, Dagonet, and Gawain riding up on their horses just as Arthur moved away from the curtain, a grim expression on his face.

Arthur glanced once at Bedwyr before striding over to the Roman cavalry. “That’s not the bishop.”

Bedwyr frowned, and then easily shifted her stance into a more fight-ready position, just as there was the sound of unsheathing steel from the Romans, and the tension shot up quickly in the clearing.

Bors, Lancelot, and Gawain immediately readied their weapons, flanking Arthur on the ground while the other Sarmatian knights loomed menacingly on their horses. Even Cavall started growling at her feet, amber eyes trained at the Roman soldiers.

“Stand down!” A thick accented voice cut through the tension, just as one of the Roman officers rode forward. “Arthur! Arthur Castus. You're your father’s image. I haven’t seen you since childhood.”

Arthur stepped forward, mouth tight in a straight line. “Bishop Germanus. Welcome to Britain.” Arthur turned and eyed where the fake bishop was being helped out of the wagon. “I see that your military skills are still of use to you. Your device worked.”

The older Roman scoffed, though he appeared smug. “Ancient tricks of an ancient dog.” Then he turned and appraised the Knights, looking each in the eye before stopping at Bedwyr. “And these are the great Sarmatian Knights we have heard so much of in Rome.”

Bedwyr met the Bishop’s gaze evenly, letting her eyes cool into cold, blatant disdain.

The bishop flinched then looked at Arthur, clearing his throat. “I thought the Woads control the north of Hadrian’s Wall.”

Arthur nodded slightly. “They do, but they occasionally venture south. Rome’s anticipated withdrawal from Britain has only increased their daring. I hope you did not experience any more attacks on the journey.”

The bishop laughed. “No, we have not. They must have feared going against so many Romans this deep in our own territory.”

The other Sarmatians and Arthur glanced at each other in blatant disbelief. With a raised eyebrow, Arthur turned pointedly to look at Bedwyr, a question in his gaze. The other Knights stared openly at her as well, a stony expression on Tristan’s face with frowns of disapproval on the others.

Bedwyr could not help but flinch under the scrutiny before nodding in answer, subtly raising three fingers under the crook of her elbow.

There was a series of growls and scowls when the Knights saw how many attacks she had thwarted. A hard glare from Arthur told her that this discussion was not over before he turned his attention back to the bishop.

Tristan merely glanced at her, his jaw tense and dark eyes shadowed by his fringe with a silently blank expression before he turned his horse, casually dismissing her.

She tried not to think about why that caused a sharp pain in her stomach.

Ignoring the worry and displeasure radiating off of her knightly big brothers, Bedwyr eyed the supposed Bishop. He was an older man, with grey peppering his hair and beard. But there was a certain smirk upon his face and a shifty glint in his eyes that set the hairs on the back of her neck on end. He had watched the exchange with interest and now was considering her in a lewd way that she was far too familiar with.

She wanted to scowl but instead turned stiffly on her heel and disappeared behind the wagon to where Tamatahra was waiting for her.

She clicked her tongue and the black horse trotted over, pausing patiently as she swung up onto his saddle with practiced grace. With another click of the tongue, she pushed him forward toward the circle of soldiers.

“Woads?” she heard the monk ask just as she rode up. 

“British rebels who hate Rome,” Gawain answered disdainfully from atop his horse.

“Men who want their country back,” Galahad bit out, resentfully eyeing the monk. Bedwyr shot him a hard look in reprimand, and he grimaced but didn’t take it back.

“Who leads them?” Bishop Germanus asked, turning to Arthur.

Lancelot answered grimly. “He’s called Merlin. A dark magician, some say.”

Arthur escorted the bishop down from his horse then looked at Bedwyr. “Bedwyr, ride up ahead and make sure the road is clear. Tristan will ride behind us as look out.” 

Bedwyr didn’t even look at Tristan, before clicking her tongue. Tamatahra snorted then broke off into a hard gallop just outside the forest line, with Cavall trailing behind like a grey shadow.

She knew these roads better than any other, riding two leagues ahead safely before she brought the black horse to a slight trot. It would be a half-day at least until they reached the Wall, so they had some ground to cover. 

With barely a glance behind, she kept her gaze to the forest, looking out for the familiar sign of Woads. Having seen none and knowing it was safe, she clicked her tongue and whistled twice.

Cavall as per his training yipped once then vanish down the trail. He would appear to Arthur and only Arthur, letting her commander know that it was safe to travel on ahead before the wolf would then turn back to catch up to her. 

Bedwyr watched Cavall disappear over the brush and bit back a sigh as she kicked Tamatahra’s sides lightly to spur him into a canter.

With the wind whistling in her ears and the frost biting at her skin, she resolutely ignored the throbbing feeling in her chest at the thought that the bishop carried her brothers’ freedom and it was she being left behind.

Above her, a familiar hawk screeched, and it echoed painfully in her heart.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed"
> 
> \- Martin Luther King Jr. 
> 
> In which their discharge is within their grasp, but Bedwyr suspects.

**

She waited for them at the clearing where Hadrian’s Wall was in plain sight, cutting a pitch black shadow at the top of the hill.

Cavall lay panting at her feet, his sides heaving slightly from the day’s battle and the messenger runs. He was still covered in blood - the dirty wolf - and looked every bit like Ares’ pet from the Roman mythology of old.

Eventually, she spotted the caravan coming up the road, and she sat straighter in her saddle. It looked like the Knights were trailing the Roman wagon, keeping it safe from any Woad attacks at the back.

Coolly, she glanced at the Roman cavalry as they passed, motioning them to ride toward the Wall before turning towards her fellow Knights.  From inside the wagon, she could feel the Bishop’s eyes upon her, but disregarded the uncomfortable feeling with barely a glance. 

“Bedwyr,” Arthur greeted, riding in the front of the line. Behind him trailed Lancelot, then Gawain and Galahad. She spied Bors, Dagonet, and Tristan at the back, where Bors was deep in a friendly, raunchy discussion with the two more stoic knights. 

She acknowledged Arthur with a nod, pulling Tamatahra in line next to Gawain and Galahad, who both smiled at her in welcome. Cavall trotted up next to them, leaping playfully between the horses.

The Knights and Roman caravan continued on in silence, but the sight of the Wall had loosened some of the lingering hardwire tension from the battle and pretty soon, the Sarmatians were chatting away in good humor about their charges.

“I don’t like him, that Roman,” Galahad scowled darkly, and the rest of the Knights bit back groans. Galahad was known for his blatant pessimism. “If he’s here to discharge us, why doesn’t he just give us our papers?”

“Is this your happy face?” Gawain asked, amused by his fellow knight. “Galahad, do you still not know the Romans? They won’t scratch their asses without holding a ceremony.”

From behind, Bors spoke up with a cheerful growl. “Why don’t you just kill him, and then discharge yourself after?”

Galahad cast him a disdainful glance. “I don’t kill for pleasure, unlike some.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Bedwyr saw Tristan glance once over at Galahad, then once at her riding up ahead before the scout answered dryly. “Well, you should try it someday. You might get a taste of it.”

Bors barked a rough laugh, clapping Galahad on the shoulder. “It’s a part of you. It’s in your blood.”

Bedwyr nodded in agreement, fleeing the adrenaline and the bloodlust of the battle boiling in her soul. She couldn’t imagine life without the good fight.

Galahad disagreed, shaking his head. “No, no, no. As of tomorrow, this was all just a bad memory.”

Bedwyr snorted at the naive notion even as Gawain joined in the discussion, his voice wistful. “I’ve often thought about what going home would mean after all this. What will I do? It’s different for Galahad. I’ve been in this life longer than any other. So much for home. It’s not so clear in my memory.”

“You speak for yourself,” Bors scoffed. “It’s cold back there and everyone I know is dead and buried. Besides, I have, I think, a dozen children.”

“Eleven,” Bedwyr corrected absentmindedly. Vanora would never let her forget how many children the two lovers had, given that Bedwyr was often the favored babysitter after Dagonet.

Bors cast her a glance, then continued. “You listen. When the Romans leave here, we’ll have the run of all this place. I’ll be governor in my own village and Dagonet will be my personal guard and royal ass-kisser. Won’t you, Dag?”

With a raised eyebrow, Bedwyr glanced back at Dagonet who caught her eye then shrugged. She chuckled under her breath before slowing her horse to match Dagonet’s.

The tall, quiet giant had always been one of her favorite brethren.

“Is that really your plan, Dag?” she asked, keeping her voice curious and light.

He scanned her, eyes narrowed but surprised.

She didn’t blame him. In all the time that the Knights had known her, Bedwyr had never once mentioned her homeland (that no longer existed, not that they knew that). She never started these discussions as well so for her to show interest at all was pretty rare.

Dagonet answered anyway, voice deep and thoughtful. “Bors is my brother in every way that matters. And I am like Gawain. I cannot really remember what home is any more. I could make it home here, I think.”

Bedwyr nodded and they continued on in relative silence, letting the other Knights’ raunchy talk of ugly Sarmatian women and Lancelot’s womanizing behavior wash over them.

Ahead of her, Tristan didn’t glance back or join in the discussion; instead, his attention was to the skies before he whistled twice into the air.

Bedwyr watched with slight twinge in her heart as his hawk dropped onto his outstretched arm, voicing barely a chirp. With intense eyes warmer that she had ever seen, the scout caressed his hawk, running the crook of a soft finger along her breast feathers.

“Where you been now? Where you been, eh?” he whispered fondly, though Bedwyr could hear him as clear as day.

She turned her head away from the intimate moment to scan the forest line, missing the flash of hurt across Tristan’s face or his jaw tense before he returned to his usual stoic demeanor.

At their side, Dagonet, who had seen the entire exchange, merely shook his head at the two scouts with a fond exasperated look on his face.

Ahead of them, the gates opened and the caravan with its knightly guards trotted forward through it.

The immensity of the Wall had always amazed Bedwyr but most times, it made her feel completely trapped, like a dog on a leash. Cavall never felt comfortable in the fortress either, usually keeping close to her and Tamatahra with an almost religious determination. Now, he loped along at her side, keeping an easy pace while scanning every which way for danger. 

The group traveled along the roads for a little while before stopping in the courtyard. Bedwyr bit back a grin, seeing Vanora and her bastard children waiting by the gates leading to the tavern and markets.

She also caught sight of Jols, who was stepping forward with a warm grin.

“Welcome back, Arthur,” the quartermaster greeted, walking around the Roman caravan to take his master’s horse, just as Arthur slipped gracefully from his saddle. He was Arthur’s man, not Rome’s, after all.

“Jols,” Arthur acknowledged with a nod, before moving to help the Bishop from the carriage.

“Bishop, please, my quarters have been made available to you,” Arthur said courteously.

Bedwyr herself had brought Tamatahra to a halt, grabbing the reins and hanging back as far away from the Romans as possible.

The old Roman bishop looked tired from the journey, but his gaze still cut through the crowd, catching Bedwyr’s eye and giving a lecherous grin. “Oh, yes. I must rest,” he drawled.

She merely stared indifferently until the bishop disappeared down the halls, fighting down a shiver at the intent of his words. Shrugging it off, she turned to dismount only to catch Tristan watching her with a dark, unreadable intensity in his gaze, his face blank of any other expression.

Bedwyr blinked at him, surprised, and they stared at each other a moment, before a loud slap rang in the air.

The woman knight turned quickly and bit back a laugh, because, of course, the fiery Vanora would greet her adoring lover with such violence.

“Where have you been?” the little, voluptuous red-head asked dangerously. Bors barley appeared to notice, staring at the woman with a passionate-borderline-worshipful expression. “I’ve been waiting for you!”

Bors merely moved closer, voice hoarse. “My little flower . . . such passion!”

And then, there was kissing.

Bedwyr grinned widely, finding the whole scene highly amusing. She turned back to share the moment with Tristan, only to find that the silent scout was already off his horse and heading to the tavern without so much as a by-your-leave.

Again, her stomach flipped uncomfortably and she bit back a sigh. Instead of dismounting, she turned Tamatahra toward the barn.

“Bedwyr,” Jols greeted, as she rode into the barn then dismounted. He was unsaddling Arthur’s horse, already getting a brush and a bucket of water while the white steed munched balefully on some hay.

She grunted at him, not feeling overly friendly at the moment and blaming her foul mood on a certain fellow knight. She clicked her tongue quietly and Tamatahra walked over to his stall, then turned and regarded her with blatant demand for hay and apples.

“Spoiled horse,” she muttered under her breath, reaching up to unsaddle him, while slipping him two apples as he nuzzled her hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the disappearing tail of Cavall just as he escaped up the ladder to the hayloft. Clever mutt.

“You never should have taught ‘im how to do that,” Jols chuckled, catching her eye from over his horse’s shoulder.

Bedwyr nodded with a wince. Now, she’d have to bribe the wolf to get him down from his little bed up there.

She turned and looked at Jols thoughtfully. “Do you know how long the bishop’s staying?” she asked.

The quartermaster shook his head, eyes trained on his task. “No. I understood it was supposed to be a few weeks, but Arthur’s been keeping silent.”

Bedwyr hummed noncommittally, trying to pass as casual. “Then, is it all right if I stay in the loft until he leaves? I’ll help with the horses, for now as well.”

She should really be cleaning her wounds, particularly the nasty axe graze on her side, but had absolutely no desire to leave the safety of her animals.

Jols stopped what he was doing, eyes going darkly curious as he glanced at her. “Is there any particular reason?”

“No?” she ventured, but Jols’ eyes only narrowed and the young knight caved easily with a grimace. He knew her too well. “The bishop may or may not have implied something untoward.”

Jols groaned aloud, tossing the brush harshly into the water bucket. “Does Arthur know?”

Bedwyr whirled on the quartermaster, blue eyes flashing dangerously. “No, and he won’t. He doesn’t need that now,” she pointed out.

Jols sighed, a hand coming up to pinch his nose in a clear sign of exasperation.  Finally, he nodded. “Very well. You can stay in the loft. But the others are going to wonder where you are.”

She snorted bitterly at that, turning back to washing Tamatahra’s coat. It was thick with blood and dirt and smoke from the day’s battle. “The others will be too busy celebrating their newfound freedom. I highly doubt they’ll come looking for me. And besides, Tristan knows where I am.”

Not that he’d come looking, but there was no reason for Jols to know that.

Jols sighed again, and then nodded. “Good. But you have to let us know if it gets any worse.”

“I will,” she agreed easily.

The two remained silent, keeping to their chores steadfastly. Eventually, Jols finished first, patting Arthur’s horse with a grin before looking at her.

“Arthur will want you at the meeting tonight,” Jols started. Bedwyr grunted in acknowledgment, distracted, and Jols nodded good-bye to her before slipping out of the barn. She stayed in there a while with the horses, feeling her weary body relax in the calm tediousness and practiced motions, humming an old Sarmatian tune.

Eventually, with all of her chores done and Tamatahra happily eating his meal, Bedwyr glanced up at the ladder that led up to the hayloft.

“Come, Cavall,” she called up, using her softest voice. There was a shift of movement, but the wolf didn’t appear. The young knight rolled her eyes, sighed, and then growled dangerously. “Come _now_ , Cavall.”

This time, there was a whine, and then a furry head appeared, looking down at her with soft amber eyes and a panting, lolling tongue.

She shook her head, determined and mildly immune to his begging antics. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s time to go.”

There was a scuffle, another whine, and then the beast made its way down, a sulk in his every movement.  She rolled her eyes, before reaching into her pouch. Immediately, Cavall’s ears perked up and he bounded down the ladder with all the grace of a puppy.

She tossed the venison jerky to him with a fond smile and he snapped it in the air, gnashing it up easily before coming to her side.

“Come on, you manipulative mutt,” she said, scratching behind his ears before walking to the stable door. He licked her hand then trailed after her.

Bedwyr walked into the open air with a small sigh, breathing in the scent of fire and winter in the evening light. 

“Took ya long enough,” a voice grunted behind her.

She shrugged her shoulders, glancing back to see Tristan leaning against the barn door, arms crossed and his dark eyes watching her with unreadable scrutiny.

Matching his intense gaze, she fought down the shiver that ran up her spine and the warmth, which curled in her stomach, every time she read the depth of emotions there.

He pushed off the barn wall, staring at her, and stalked forward until he stood an arm’s length away. Bedwyr’s breath hitched and her body tensed, despite her best efforts - though whether to flee or fight, she didn’t know.

She steadied herself a moment too late for Tristan’s hawk eyes caught the movement, his face closing off and eyes dimming in the evening light before he turned away.

“Come on, then. Arthur and the rest are waiting,” he called over his shoulder.  Bedwyr let a breath out, shaking herself off from the wild emotions (disappointment) churning in her gut, before she followed.

In tense silence, the two knights walked to the Court, where Arthur and their Sarmatian brethren were already seated, chatting easily over goblets of wine.

“Bedwyr! Tristan!” Bors cheered them, across the table. Without looking at her, Tristan stalked to the other side of the table, taking a seat next to Lancelot and Gawain.

Bedwyr hid back a grimace and smiled instead toward the burly, bald knight, grabbing a goblet of wine from his hands and sipping it. She then sat next to Dagonet and Bors, relishing in the two brothers’ steady presence.

Having seen them seated, Arthur stood up, raising his goblet with a somber expression. “Let us not forget that we are the fortunate ones. Let us raise our wine to those gallant and extraordinary men we have lost, but who will be remembered for eternity.”

Bors stood first, his jovial face unusually serious in the memory of their fallen. “To freedom!”

The Knights stood, and saluted their comrades and commander. “Freedom!”

Bedwyr sipped at her wine again, relishing the liquid warmth in the cold reminder of her fallen brothers. Festus. Silvanus. Lomorak. Aulus. Drommas. Gaheris. They were names and faces and memories carved upon her heart.

It was in this somber mood, that Jols stepped through the door, his expression amused as the nervous monk stepped up behind him, a superior air emanating from him as he announced. “His Eminence, Bishop Naius Germanus.”

Bedwyr watched with amusement when the monk stared at horror at the table, just as the bishop walked in. “A round table? What sort of evil is this?” he whispered.

Jols chuckled and she now understood his amusement. The monk had probably wanted to seat the bishop at the head of the table. What a rude awakening.

“Arthur says that for men to be men, they must first all be equal,” Jols explained, giving Bedwyr a wink. She hid a grin into her goblet as she took another sip.

Around the table, Tristan cast her another unreadable look, but she ignored him in favor of watching the bishop who strode forward, face almost insultingly apologetic when he turned to Arthur. “I was given the understanding that there would be more of you.”

“There were. We have been fighting here for over fifteen years, Bishop.” Arthur met Germanus’ gaze evenly – almost accusingly, just as Bedwyr bit back a growl.

For the Roman to say that so casually? Had he no shame?

Germanus waved away their grief, causing a new surge of irritation, and raised a goblet in the air to salute. “Oh, of course. Arthur and his knights have served with courage to maintain the honor of Rome's empire on this last outpost of our glory. Rome is most indebted to you, noble knights. To your final days as servants to the empire.”

Bedwyr felt her shoulders tense in warning, just as Lancelot cast a sharp suspicious glance toward the bishop. “Day,” he said, enunciating the word. “Not days.”

The bishop faltered for a moment before continuing. “The Pope’s taken a personal interest in you. He inquires after each of you, and is curious to know if your knights have converted to the Word of our Savior or . . .?” He glanced at Arthur curiously.

Bedwyr felt her hackles rise defensively just as Arthur turned to the bishop, a sharp reprimand in his gaze. “They retained the religion of their forefathers. I have never questioned that.”

Germanus paused, before an actual look of disappointment crossed his features, his eyes glancing casually at Bedwyr once again. “Of course, of course. They are pagans. Hm? For our part, the Church has deemed such beliefs innocence, but you, Arthur,” the bishop turned to Arthur with a raised eyebrow, “Your path to God is through Pelagius? I saw his image in your room.”

Arthur actually preened, while the knights exchanged amused glances. Arthur could and had waxed poetic about Pelagius for as long as they’d known him. “He took my father's place for me. His teachings on free will and equality have been a great influence. I look forward to our reunion in Rome,” he explained eagerly, voice filled with hopeful anticipation that made Bedwyr feel bitterly jaded.

Germanus flinched, and Bedwyr eyed him with suspicion. What was the bishop hiding?

The older Roman coughed once to clear his throat before he moved on, gesturing wildly. “Ah. Rome awaits your arrival with great anticipation. You are a hero. In Rome, you will live out your days in honor and wealth,” the bishop dramatically shrugged his shoulders, as though it was all out of his hands, “We are all but players in an ever-changing world. Barbarians from every corner are almost at Rome's door. Because of this, Rome and the Holy Father have decided to remove ourselves from indefensible outposts, such as Britain. What will become of Britain is not our concern anymore. I suppose the Saxons will claim it soon.”

This was news to the knights. They glanced at each other with frowns and scowls, having faced the bloodthirsty Saxons before.

Bedwyr leaned forward to rest her chin on her intertwined hands, watching the Bishop closely.

“Saxons?” Arthur echoed, scowling. It was news to Arthur as well.

Bedwyr could almost see his strict moral compass die a little at the thought of leaving innocent people at the hands of those barbarians.

“Yes,” Germanus nodded. “In the north, a massive Saxon incursion has begun.”

Lancelot and Gawain exchanged glances with Bedwyr, who inclined her head grimly in reply. She had heard such rumors in the north as well during her last mission. To have it confirmed was more than troubling.

“Saxons only claim what they kill,” Lancelot recited.

“And they kill everything,” Gawain finished gloomily.

Bedwyr took another strong sip of her wine, visions of flames and dead villages floating through her head with startling clarity.

Galahad looked at Germanus with blatant disgust, a sneer curling his lips. “So, you would just leave the land to the Woads. I risked my life for nothing,” he spat.

Bedwyr glared at the dark-haired young knight, resisting the urge to whack him over the head for the selfish thought. The Knights had always risked their lives for _each other_ ; even if they didn’t believe in the cause they fought for, the Sarmatians stayed in battle so that their brothers could have someone they trusted at their back.

Germanus looked around, obviously finding little favor in the Sarmatian knights, before he opened up a wooden chest filled with scrolls. Scrolls that she recognized. The Sarmatians at her side stared at the treasure, dark eyes nearly glowing with blatant want.

“Hm. Gentlemen, your discharge papers with safe conduct throughout the Roman empire,” the bishop said. “But first,” And here, the wooden chest closed with a distinct click. “I must have a word with your commander. In private.”

Bitter anger wafted through the room, rolling off the Sarmatians in waves just as Arthur looked at the bishop before motioning to his comrades. “We have no secrets.”

The bishop turned to glance at Arthur with a raised eyebrow, which Arthur met equally. There was a silent struggle between the two Romans, before Lancelot stood, a grim expression of sardonic defiance on his face. He downed his goblet then placed it down hard upon the table.

“Come. Let us leave Roman business to Romans,” he agreed, voice filled with sarcasm.

Bedwyr saw Arthur flinch at the backhanded insult while the Sarmatians grumbled but stood up in compliance, downing their drinks and wandering out into the halls.

Bors paused as he stood, glaring harshly at the Roman, but Dagonet merely nudged his shoulder. “Let it go, Bors,” he ordered seriously, and Bors shut his mouth, jaw tight before stomping out.  

Bedwyr rose from her seat as well, also downing her drink. Before she left, she caught Arthur’s eye. He nodded to her, his face making a bleak but reassuring shadow in the light of the room. She tilted her head to him, closing the door solidly then standing outside for a moment, if only to make sure that the rest of the knights followed his order.

When she found them, the Knights were gathered in the hall, worry and suspicion casting silent frowns across their faces. Cavall was lying in the corner, though his head perked up when he saw her. Steeling herself, she forced a careless grin and stepped forward.

“Well, let’s get pissed, brothers,” shouted Bedwyr, putting her arms over the shoulders of Dagonet and Gawain. They all looked at each other for a moment before chuckling, a tension easing out of their shoulders.

“Only if you’re paying, lad,” Bors stated, a rough laugh bubbling at his lips as he clapped her on the back.

The rest fell in pretty easily, with Gawain and Galahad already making bets on their next knife-throwing competition while Lancelot crooned slightly over the new tavern wench and dug in a few harmless comments on Verona as well, if only to rile Bors up. It worked every time. Dagonet and Tristan trailed behind silently, their stoic faces softening with the forced cheeriness of their brothers.

Behind them all, Bedwyr paused and held back a sigh, absently petting Cavall’s furry head. Well, at least, the tavern would distract them for a bit. She’d probably have to recruit Vanora for that as well.

She cast a shadowed glance at the closed doors of Arthur’s Court, fighting the unease filling her stomach.

In the deepest pit of her heart, she hoped against hope that this wasn’t a mistake.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The saddest thing about betrayal is that it never comes from your enemies." 
> 
> \- Anonymous
> 
> In which Rome fails to live up to its promise and Bedwyr is surprisingly unsurprised.

**

The tavern was alive and well with good cheer by the time they all arrived, and the Knights dove into games and ale-filled distraction with a particularly determined air.

Bedwyr was able to catch Vanora by the kitchens.

“I need you to keep ‘em distracted for a bit,” she whispered to the red-headed woman, who might as well have been her sister for all their years together.

Vanora stared at her impassively with a raised eyebrow, cradling her son Eleven in her arms while balancing a tray of pints in the other.

Damn impressive, if you asked Bedwyr.

Of all people, Vanora was one of the sparse few (only) that knew the youngest Sarmatian knight was a woman. She also scared Bedwyr into submission most of the time with her motherly dominant, almost bullying ways. Some days, Bedwyr thought they should just release Vanora on the Woads or maybe the Saxons; the invaders would flee the island out of fear of that redhead’s wrath alone.

Seeing Vanora’s unmoved expression, Bedwyr sighed then explained. “The bishop is stalling. I don’t know why. But the Knights are two steps away from committing papal murder and deserting. Just please, can you distract them?”

Vanora considered her for a moment, before huffing. With a practiced quick movement, Bedwyr found herself with an armful of baby and Vanora was swaying off to where Knights were clustered.

“Who wants another drink?” Vanora called, smiling widely. There was a round of raucous cheers.

Bedwyr stared at the child in her arms for a moment, feeling that familiar strain of womanly jealousy in her heart as the baby cooed and reached for her braids.

Carefully, she put a finger on the child’s nose with a soft smile, humming under her breath. “Such a pretty wee one you are, eh? I wonder where you got that from. Obviously not your father.”

“Oi,” Bors growled, coming up behind her with a wry grin and a pint. “You insult me to my own bastard?”

Bedwyr smirked unabashedly while ignoring the baby’s hand tugging on her braid. “Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll be able to insult you himself in a few years.”

Bors snorted, taking another sip of the pint before reaching for the child. “Come to Papa, Eleven. I’ll keep ya away from these awful liars.”

Bedwyr rolled her eyes but had no trouble handing the swaddled baby over to his father, easily trading him for the pint in Bors’ hand. She suddenly had the urge to drink – heavily – and downed the pint in an easy way.

Bors eyed her for a moment before giving her a wide grin. “Why don’t you head over there, lad? Have some fun, eh?”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” she agreed, heading over to where the other Knights were gathered, feeling the warm mead fill her body and relax her limbs.

She saw Galahad and Gawain having a knife-throwing competition at a chair, with a crowd gathered placing bets, and wandered over to join them, swiping another pint off Vanora’s tray as she went.

Bedwyr sprawled into a seat in the back corner next to Jols with easy throwing access to the game, while keeping an eye on the Romans playing cards with Lancelot. They looked like the ones that had arrived with the bishop. Definitely people to watch.

There was a cheer and she turned back to note that Tristan had joined the game, absently chewing an apple after throwing a knife in the hilt’s center of another.

Gawain gaped at the scout with obvious envy in his tone. “Tristan . . . how do you do that?”

Tristan bit into his apple before pointing at the knife, a rare smirk on his features. “I aim for the middle.”

She chuckled under her breath before grabbing her own knife from its sheath and flinging it hard at Tristan’s with practiced ease. With a loud thud, her larger knife hit the hilt of Tristan’s dead-on in the center and stuck.

They all turned to look at her with various shocked expressions, and she shrugged.

“What? I aimed for the middle,” she explained, casually taking another large sip of mead to hide her playful grin.

With the crowd dissipating at the end of the game, she caught Tristan actually smirk at her, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth, while Gawain and Galahad shook their heads in exasperation, trading coin over the bet. Jols merely cheered her mug, before downing his own. 

“More! More mead!” called Lancelot, slapping Vanora on the back as she escaped his clutches.

Vanora caught Bedwyr’s amused eye as she stalked back to the kitchen, shaking her head with a huff. “Oh, they want more.”

Ignoring Vanora’s half-hearted complaint, Bedwyr nodded to Dagonet in greeting, seeing him stalking across the courtyard for a fresh pint.

After a moment, Bors erupted from the kitchens, a pint in hand while clapping his other hand on Vanora’s back, Eleven once again in her arms.

“Dagonet, where you been? We’ve got plans to make,” Bors asked his brother as Dagonet passed by before he turned to Vanora with a pleading expression. “Here, please.”

Bedwyr took another large swig of mead, just as Verona rolled her eyes, but let herself be pushed to the center.

“No, please,” the bartender whined, though her eyes danced with jollity. “I’m trying to work.”

Bors shook his head, pushing her toward the edge of the courtyard. “Come on. Sing for us. One last time.” He turned to the tavern and bellowed. “Shut up! Vanora will sing!”

Vanora started to shake her head, but it was useless as the rest of the crowd started chanting for her to sing.

Bors leaned forward, a wistful if slightly tipsy expression on his face. “Come, Vanora, sing about home.”

Vanora shook her head, smiling indulgently, before she looked at her baby, cooing over him. Her soft, powerful voice then rose over the silence of the crowd in soothing tones of Latin. Bedwyr leaned back to enjoy it.

_“Land of bear and land of eagle_

_Land that gave us birth and blessing_

_Land that called us ever homewards_

_We will go home across the mountains_

The Knights quieted, each watching the redhead sing with an entranced but wistful expression.

Bedwyr ignored the twisting pain in her chest, catching Tristan’s almost casual look as he carved another bite from his apple though his eyes were deep and dark with longing.

He caught her glance, his expression softening for a precious moment even as the song continued.

Her face flush with mead and sudden fierce want, she looked quickly back into her mug.

_We will go home_

_We will go home_

_We will go home across the mountains_

_We will go home singing our song..._

_...hear our singing, hear our longing_

The young knight took another long sip, trying to drown the sudden silence and sorrow in her heart. For her, there was no ‘we’ and there was no ‘home.’ There was only ‘them’ and ‘Tristan’, not that he’d ever know.

Still, she felt Tristan’s intense eyes watching her, and absently wondered why.

_We will go home across the mountains_

_We will go home_

_We will go home..._

Bedwyr caught Arthur striding through the courtyard in the back, just as the song was ending. The pained expression on his face made her grimace. Whatever the bishop had said, it was not good news. Arthur tried to turn away from the tavern, but Jols sighted him.

“Arthur!” the quartermaster called out with a wave. The young Roman commander flinched visibly before stiffening his shoulders. Bedwyr recognized the signs of a man bearing bad news and stood up to join her brethren in the courtyard where they gathered.

Galahad was beaming, taking a swig from a jug of ale. “Arthur! Arthur!” he cheered, walking up to him. “Come join us. You’re not completely Roman yet, right?”

Bors pounded on his chest with an open hand and a grin. “Rus!!” he bellowed, nodding before clapping Dagonet on the back. 

The rest of the Knights were gathering upfront toward their commander as well, cheerful expressions on their faces while Bedwyr felt closed off, retreating toward the back. She didn’t want to hear what it was Arthur was going to say. She wanted to close her eyes or to run away. Instead, she forced herself closer, until she could see the conflict in Arthur’s gaze and hear the hesitation in his voice.

“Knights, brothers-in-arms,” he started. “Your courage has been tested beyond all limits.”

Bors nodded in complete agreement, still tipsy and grinning like a loon. “Yes.”

“But I must ask you now for one further trial,” Arthur stated, forging on with that steely will of a commander. Bedwyr felt her spine straighten and the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

Casually, she leaned back and caught Dagonet’s eye, the conflicted yet resigned emotions there mirroring her own. 

Bors appeared able to ignore the sudden tension, raising his mug with a cheer. “Drink!” He chugged it down, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

The other knights by now watched Arthur intensely and stiffly, as though waiting for a physical blow.

Arthur merely shook his head, shoulders slumping slightly even as he tried to give this one last order. “We must leave on a final mission for Rome before our freedom can be granted. Above the wall, far in the north, there is a Roman family in need of rescue. They are trapped by Saxons. Our orders are to secure their safety.”

Bors blinked blearily just as the other knights’ faces darkened with understanding.

Bedwyr closed her eyes for a moment, focusing on her breathing just as a familiar wraith of anger and rage swirled into existence in her chest and her mind filled with a dangerous red haze, the mead not helping matters at all. It was Bishop Drustus all over again - except this time, it wasn’t just Bedwyr who was threatened; it was her _brothers_.

Her eyes snapped open with an ugly snarl on her lips, blue eyes gleaming with a battle rage in the moonlight of the courtyard just as Bors stepped back from Arthur. 

“Let the Romans take care of their own,” he scowled darkly.

Next to him, Gawain crossed his arms, expression carefully closed off though Bedwyr could see his knuckles white with tension.

“Above the wall is Woad territory,” the blonde pointed out unhelpfully, eyes guarded.

Bedwyr resisted the urge to snap at him. _Of course, it is. The Woads who we have killed and fought live there_. This was madness – a suicidal run toward the horizon with no end in sight.

Young Galahad stepped forward toward Arthur, a harsh and accusing glare on his face. “Our duty to Rome – if it ever was a duty – is done,” he spat. “Our pact with Rome is _done_.”

Arthur met his gaze evenly, bearing the brunt of the knights’ bitter anger and disappointment. Bedwyr felt most of her rage simmer into a more manageable beast. It wasn’t Arthur’s fault; he would never ask them to do this unless there really was no choice.

Her hands stopped trembling slightly.

Bors charged again, his face red with anger and mead, dark eyes filled with something close to tears as he shouted at Arthur. “Every knight here as laid his life on the line for you. For you. And instead of freedom, you want more blood? _Our_ blood?  You think more of Roman blood than you do ours?!”

Arthur flinched visibly at the accusation, and Bedwyr nearly defended him but then the Roman commander straightened his spine, a sharp look of reprimand in his eyes.

“Bors! These are our orders. We leave at first light, and when we return, your freedom will be waiting for you. A freedom we can embrace with honor.” The words still rang hollow in their ears.

“I am a free man!” Bors shouted in defiance, the emotion echoed on every Knight’s face and stance. “I will choose my own fate!”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re all going to die someday,” Tristan waved his hand casually in the air, his Sarmatian accent tilting his words into a dead, resigned tone. His face was stonier than ever, taking Bedwyr’s breath from her chest, as the silent scout considered Bors with indifferent eyes. “If it’s a death from Saxon hand that frightens you, stay home.”

Galahad whirled on him, voice filled with rage and pain. “If you’re so eager to die, you die right now!”

Tristan just looked at him, a maddened but dangerous glint in his gaze.

Lancelot stepped between the two to stop any bloodshed. “Enough! Enough!”

Galahad paused then turned back to Arthur, eyes defiant as he pointed at him mutinously. “I’ve got something to live for!”

Finally, Bedwyr spoke, her voice quietly strong to hide any of the rage that she felt at the Romans. It cut through the knights’ rising anger like an axe.

“Arthur would never ask this of us, unless there was no other choice,” she reasoned, the words loud in the silence. The Knights looked at her, faces filled with betrayal and turmoil, and she straightened her shoulders, nodding to each of them. “Save your anger for the Saxons and Woads. We’re going to need it.”

Galahad stepped toward her with a sneer. “That’s easy for you to say, ya bloody bastard. You received your papers years ago. A _free_ man, unlike us,” he spat out like a curse. “You don’t belong here.”

Immediately, Arthur and the Knights tensed, watching the two of their brethren with wide eyes.

Bedwyr stared at Galahad, unable to voice the oh-so-vicious irony and the physical blow from such harsh words.

After Drustus had left, she and Arthur had agreed to tell the knights that Bedwyr had received her discharge papers and chosen to become a mercenary knight under Arthur’s command, rather than return home. If the other knights had known of Rome’s betrayal, there would have been a mutiny. Only Arthur and Tristan knew that Rome still held an axe over her head because of the accursed Bishop Drustus.

Bedwyr closed herself off completely, withdrawing into that cold, emotionless front from so long ago when she didn’t have brothers and stood on battlefields alone, surviving among the Romans.

Arthur - and Tristan to her surprise - downright glowered at Galahad, as did Dagonet and Bors. She simply looked at him – the younger of her Sarmatian brethren - letting the warmth in her eyes retreat and he visibly winced.

When she spoke, it was with none of the familiarity they had built over the years.

“Well, then,” she said, her voice casually belying any hurt, and even Lancelot grimaced in surprise at the emotionless tone. The knights’ white hot anger had long since simmered into embers, and they watched Bedwyr warily. “If that’s the case, don’t you wonder why I stayed at all?” she asked, tilting her head.

There was a stark silence. The knights blinked at her, shame filling their features as her words echoed in their ears before Dagonet spoke up, dissipating the tension like a strong wind through the mist.

“I agree with Bedwyr,” he declared, stepping forward to appraise their Roman commander with a heavy gaze. “The Romans have broken their word. We have the word of Arthur. That is good enough. I’ll prepare.”

Decision made, he turned and strode off the courtyard, casually glancing back at Bors, from where the burly man was pacing. “Bors, you coming?”

Bors visibly bristled then bellowed in anger. “Of course, I’m coming! You can’t go on your own! You’ll all get killed. I’m just saying what you’re all thinking!” Bors snorted then stalked off, slumping slightly and muttering under his breath. “Vanora’ll kill me.”

Bedwyr winced. His red-headed lover was going to put him through his paces. They’d be lucky if she didn’t kill _Arthur_ , let alone the bishop.

“And you, Gawain?” Arthur asked, his strong voice encouraging if a tad hesitant.

Gawain considered their Roman commander for a moment, before the stiffness in his body melted and then the blond-haired knight nodded grimly. “I’m with you.”

He elbowed Galahad, who still fumed at his side but rather in resignation than open defiance. “Galahad as well.”

Gawain turned and stalked toward the barracks, no doubt to where Dagonet and Bors had retreated. Galahad silently dropped his jug of mead at Arthur’s feet with a sarcastic sneer before following.

As they left, Arthur turned to Bedwyr, who shrugged her shoulders wearily and gave him a wan smile. “You know my answer.”

He nodded to her gratefully, but she could still read the turmoil in his gaze as Arthur looked once at Lancelot then at Tristan before stalking away.

She saw their leader heading to the barn and sighed, then glanced at Lancelot.

“Can you go after him?” she asked gingerly.

Over the years, Lancelot and Arthur had built a strong relationship, one where Lancelot never feared questioning or pressing Arthur at his most vulnerable. The curly-haired knight seemed to know that as well because he nodded grimly at her before shadowing their commander into the barn.

Then, it was just her and Tristan – the un-tethered scout who was as taut as a bow and more impassive than a cairn at the moment.

They stared at each other, a chasm of unspoken emotions between them that she could see hidden in those shadowed, intense eyes.

She huffed, shoulders slumping as the day started to catch up to her. “Well, I have to go see Vanora for a moment hopefully before she kills Bors,” she said, turning back toward the tavern. She needed to have that injury looked at, if they were to go back out in the morning.

Quick as a snake, a hand reached out and caught her wrist, dragging her back to him. Bedwyr stared at Tristan for a moment, unable to read the expression in his face.

“Aren’t you goin’ to ask if I plan to join tomorrow?” he asked, dark voice husky and hoarse as though straining against a heavy weight.

Bedwyr eyed the hand on her wrist then the scout himself before she shook her head, black braids and feathers flowing lightly in the cold wind.

“No, I’m not,” she answered, heart beating steady as a drum in her chest as she met his questioning gaze evenly. She gave him a smile – the secret one she only used for her stoic, impassive (beloved) fellow scout and watched him gape at her blatantly. “I know your answer, _shikra_.”

Then, Bedwyr twisted away, pulling her arm out of reach and retreating back to the tavern. When she glanced back, he was still standing there like a shade in the moonlight, his hand clenched tight at his side and dark eyes filled with an intensity that set her soul aflame. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Stupidity is a personal achievement which transcends national boundaries."
> 
> \- Albert Einstein
> 
> In which the Romans are pigs lined up for Bedwyr's slaughter - or just a really good beating.

**

“Oh dear. So, how’d you get this then?” Vanora asked, peering over Bedwyr’s prone form and poking a finger at the deep, jagged gash bleeding sluggishly across her ribs.

Bedwyr shrugged, trying not to feel uncomfortable with her chest completely exposed. She had already bound the tomahawk wound on the way back to the Wall with white cloth and coated it with what herbs she knew, so it wasn’t overly painful - more annoying than anything at the moment. She just wanted to make sure it wouldn’t get infected, especially with the mission tomorrow. 

Vanora hummed then nodded to herself before calling out. “Two! Get your skinny arse in here. We’re going to need hot water, needles, and thread.”

There was a pause before Bors’ second eldest - a dark-haired, dark-eyed girl of eleven - wandered into the room. She gaped at Bedwyr for a moment, probably shocked at the womanly parts on her chest. Bedwyr waved weakly at the girl, before throwing her arm over her eyes from where she lay and settling in.

At the moment, she just couldn’t bring herself to care if the secret was out. Luckily, Two loved her Auntie Bedwyr so they were alright, secret still safe, and the mother plus daughter team got to work with Bedwyr still lying on the table.

Vanora hummed again, threading a needle and holding it over the fire. Bedwyr bit back a grimace as the redhead spoke. “Alright, so how do you want it then?”

“Mead, please,” Bedwyr blurted out, blue eyes transfixed on the burning needle.  Two giggled and the knight grinned weakly at her, just as her mother sent the girl out for the mead.

The girl returned with a frothing pint, and Bedwyr nearly leapt for it like a dying man for water, downing half the mug in an instant.

Vanora eyed her wound again with a professional glance. “So, you want to tell me what’s going on with you and Tristan?” she asked casually, just as the needle entered the skin.

Even with the mead dulling her senses, Bedwyr jerked with sharp pain, biting back a curse as Vanora chuckled like the sadistic madwoman she was.

Blasted Brits.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bedwyr gritted out, overly mindful that this woman had a needle to her ribs.

Vanora cocked an eyebrow and even Two at her side stared at her with an unimpressed look. Must be in the family.

Bedwyr sighed, fully relaxing her body into the cot. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “He’s just been so . . . distant these past couple years. And I . . . well, look at me. I love him and I can’t do a thing about it.”

That was significantly harder to admit aloud - particularly considering that the tavern wenches were probably all over the mysterious, silent scout at the moment.

Bloody attractive bastard that he was.

Vanora tutted, her focus still fixed on the wound that she was sewing. “It’s amazing that even with your sharp eyes, ye still can’t see what that man’s doing around you.”

Bedwyr frowned, the mead loosening her tongue a bit more than usual. “What do you mean?” she slurred slightly.

“Well, he stares at you all the time and looks out for ya when you’re sick or wounded or on the battlefield. He’s a stiff, quiet man and he only ever relaxes when he sees you safe or hears your voice. If anything, I think he puts ya up there with that lovely hawk of his,” Vanora explained, matter-of-factly.

Bedwyr blinked, unable to process such a thought. “He can’t,” the denial bubbled out of her as she turned to Vanora with frantic eyes. “He can’t like me. He’s going to go away. I know that. He’ll get his discharge after this.” Even if he did like her (which she seriously doubted), she was a man in his eyes. What would that mean if he knew? The injustice of it made her chest burn with despair and she almost felt her eyes prick with tears.

A soft, small hand ruffled through her tangled mess of braids and feathers in a soothing motion, and she noticed it was Two, smiling down at her with fond eyes.

Her breath hitched for a moment when the pain sharpened as Vanora continued on, weaving the thread through her skin. “Yes, but you both’ll have your discharge papers then you can be together, yeah?”

Bedwyr only shook her head, unable to voice the fact that he’ll go home to Sarmatia and she’ll be here on this island until the end of her days and nothing was going to stop that. She remained silent, sipping her mead religiously to drown out the pain as the two other women worked, tying stitches and cleaning the wound.

“’ts done,” Vanora called. Bedwyr blinked blearily then sat up, feeling a little light-headed but not overly drunk. Gingerly, she touched the wound with a hiss, noting that it was at least the length of her hand and had torn through the muscles in her right side.

Vanora gave her pitying glance. “It’s gonna hurt like a bastard tomorrow, but it’s the best you’ve got.”

Bedwyr nodded, waiting patiently as Two finished up applying clean bandages before she rebound her chest and shrugged on her tunic. With a groan, she stood up, enjoying the easy relaxed feeling in her limbs and the warmth of mead in her stomach. At least, it made the pain less of a flare and more of a simmer.

Vanora gave Bedwyr a concerned look, just as Two started gathering the dirty washing bowl and other materials. “Are ye sure ye don’t wanna stay here for the night? Don’t like the idea of a pretty thing like ye wandering about out there.”

Bedwyr raised an eyebrow and gave a snort, adjusting her sword’s sash across her chest. “I’m a Sarmatian knight,” she reminded the redhead. “And ye wanna me to stay here to listen to the two of you lovers go for Number Twelve of the bastard pack? No, thank you. Enjoy Bors’ night. I’m sure he’ll be busting down the door at any moment.”

True to her prediction, the drunken burly Sarmatian burst through the door at her words. “Hullo, Two, Bedwyr . . . and Vanora, my little flower! I have bad news! Please don’t kill me!” Bors sang with a stupidly-in-love smile and open arms.

Bedwyr stared at him then at the steadily reddening face of Vanora and then quietly slipped out of the room. She still had to get to the barn, weaving her way through the barracks and clutching her side every so often because yes, damn, that hurt.

Quickly, she realized that the tavern was closed with the last few customers sleeping it off on the tables. The courtyard was utterly silent and the light of the torches flickered in the cool winter wind. With unsteady steps and bleary eyes, she walked toward the barn, feeling more tired than she had the entire journey and dreaming dazedly of her hayloft cot when she suddenly bumped into a solid wall of muscle.

Bedwyr paused, blinked, and then looked up, noting three dark figures as they surrounded her. It took her a moment to feel anything but annoyance and when she did, it had simply morphed into irrational anger at the foolishness of males.

“Hello,” she ventured. It was always a safe bet as a start.

One of the dark figures chuckled, bringing his torch closer to her face, and in the light, she could just about make out their features.

They were the Bishop Germanus’ personal guard. Her dream of a peaceful night just died a horrible death somewhere.

Casually, the Roman reached up and gently dragged the crook of his finger down the tattoo on her cheek. She stared at him, neither flinching nor moving away though she was pretty sure her soul withered a little at the contact.

“Such as pretty one ya are,” he leered. Bedwyr merely blinked again, swaying slightly from the mead as the other two Romans chuckled. “No wonder the bishop wants you for his company.”

The Roman soldiers took a menacing step forward towards the drunken knight, surrounding her, and she sighed, all too aware of the fact that they were fully armed with compete legionnaire gear.

_No helmets though_ , she noted in the back of her mind.

Oh, they would regret that. She wouldn’t even need her sword for this.

The one with the torch leaned forward again to leer in her face. “Now, the Bishop has asked us to escort you to his chambers. Ya don’t mind coming with us, do ye?”

“Actually,” she slurred, trying to act drunker than normal. Let them underestimate her. Let them see. “I do mind.”

The Roman moved closer to say something else, and in an instant, she blurred into motion.

Normally, Bedwyr would be all about holding back. These were poor Roman pigs after all; they had no idea that she was functioning on less than five hours of sleep in two days, currently had slight flares of pain on her side, and was filled to the brim with hot, molten rage at the whole Roman race (save Arthur) over the treatment of her brothers-in-arms.

She was also a tad wound up over her entangled feelings towards a certain fellow scout. And the four pints of mead. Couldn’t forget those.

So for those perfectly good reasons, her thread of patience had snapped.

The good news about drunken fights, she had always found, was that she could be as brutal as she wanted. On the battlefield, Bedwyr usually held back, trying to be precise and to kill efficiently as possible without drawing out the enemies’ deaths with cruel, unnecessary hits.

Here though, these men would feel the full brunt of her rather impressive anger, and painfully live to tell about it. 

Just as the Roman leaned closer, she whipped her head forward, head-butting him hard. He flew back with a groan, blood pouring from his broken nose and pain whiting out his vision. She didn’t pause before she wrenched his torch from his slackened hand, and whacked the burning end across his face and neck, watching impassively as he fell screaming and clutching at his face, the embers catching fire on his tunic as well.

In her distraction, a harsh blow caught her in the jaw then her side, sending her down to the ground. The pain and black spots in her vision caused only slight hesitation before she rolled away to get some distance from the two other Romans, scrambling up to her feet in a blur and facing them. The punch had split her lip so blood stained her teeth when she chuckled, grinning humorlessly.

“Come, big boys,” she drawled. “Let’s play.”

The two Romans looked at each other, obviously unnerved, then shrugged and moved to attack with one aiming to grab her arms while the other unsheathed a knife. The first Roman, she ducked to the ground and whipped out a leg, catching him hard in the unarmored knee joint and forcing him to kneel on the ground with a screech.

With the now easy access, she whipped out her fist and punched him hard in the throat, feeling his larynx cave with the blow and watching the tears gather in his eyes as he tried to breathe. She then punched him twice viciously in between the eyes, using all her back muscles and watched with satisfaction as he sprawled back on the ground, burnt out like a light with blood splattered across his face.

The whole attack had taken but a moment and she spared another to thank Bors and Dagonet for the bare-knuckle lessons.

The last Roman roared, running forward and thrusting his knife at her chest. She jumped back a step and then twisted to watch as the knife passed her side harmlessly. Before he could recover, she caught his wrist, twisting it viciously with a pressure point until his knife clattered on the floor. Then using his own momentum, she forced him into a bent-over position with one hand on the back of his head and his arm twisted backward in the other before bringing her knee up hard into his face.

 As his body flew back from the blow, she steadied herself then punched hard across his cheek, sending him down onto the ground. He was still conscious, she knew, so without hesitation, she leapt to sit on his back while he lay on the ground, grabbing his arms and pulling them backward painfully until his shoulder joints creaked beneath her hands.

He groaned and flailed, but she held tight, muscles straining while keeping an eye out to make sure that the other two Romans were still out of commission.

“You black Sarmatian bastard,” he spat blood on the ground, cursing her.

Bedwyr rolled her eyes, and then leaned forward to whisper silkily in his ear. “This is what happens when you mess with one of Arthur’s knights. Please tell the bishop that I decline his invitation.”

Then before he could recover, she released one of his arms and viciously punched the back of his head twice, hearing the wet thuds as it slammed into the stone ground painfully each time. Underneath her, his body went lax as he lost consciousness.

The first Roman was still screaming and clutching his burning face, so Bedwyr rose with an aggrieved sigh, grabbing a bucket of water and throwing it on his thrashing form. She watched with cold eyes, as he went slack - from shock or pain, she didn’t know. Either way, he wasn’t going to bother her any time soon.

The courtyard was silent, the wind whistling in her ear with stark clarity as her heartbeat struggled to return to normal. The moonlight cast shadows on the prone forms of the Romans and with an amused glance, she noticed that the sleeping, drunken customers in the tavern hadn’t even stirred from all the action. Shrugging, she started to stumble towards the barn then groaned aloud.

She pressed a hand to her side, the pain flaring as the adrenaline from the fight left her body. Now, she really needed a good night sleep and judging from remaining darkness in the sky, there were maybe a seven hours left in the night before she had to rise. 

Bedwyr felt something leak through her tunic and taking her hand away, she saw it was covered in blood. She sighed. Vanora was going to _kill_ her, if her stiches had opened up.

There was a throbbing now in her head, her knuckles were bloody and cut, her body ached from two battles fought, but with a weary sigh, she continued her way to the barn. It was quiet in the stables, but the horses shifted and whinnied, smelling her blood upon her arrival. She murmured soft, comforting words to them until they settled, and then escaped up the ladder to the hayloft.

From his bed in the hay, Cavall raised his head to look at her when she appeared and she half-heartedly scowled at him. “Where the hell were you then, eh?”

He wagged his tail at her in answer with a small whine, and Bedwyr sighed deeply before crawling over to her cot next to him. As she settled, the wolf licked her hands and face, laying his head on her chest, and she fell asleep instantly to the soft rise and fall of his warm body next to hers.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "To get through the hardest journey, we need take only one step at a time, but we must keep on stepping." 
> 
> \- Chinese Proverb 
> 
> In which a fight ends and a quest begins.

**

“Alright, lads, we have to get the horses ready for Arthur and the Knights before they arrive. Let’s get a move on, eh?”

Bedwyr awoke instantly to Jols’ cheerful voice downstairs, and she nearly cried out at the sharp pain racing through her skull.

Eyes remaining steadfastly closed, she groaned aloud through bloodied lips, sluggishly remembering her little encounter the night before as she raised her hand to her face.

There were rather impressive bruises swelling along her cheek and skull, and her ribs hurt with every breath. Oh, dear. 

Cautiously this time, Bedwyr opened her eyes, finding a worried-looking Cavall whining at her with his soft amber gaze. She patted his head for comfort, and then struggled to sit up, grimacing as the injury on her side stretched painfully. She looked at her hands, noting that the knuckles were almost completely swollen, with the skin broken open and bleeding. Both hands would have to be wrapped. With a frown, she also took note of the dirt and blood and smell rising off her clothes and body.

First things first, she would have to go back to her quarters for a fresh change of clothes then to the river for a thorough wash. It wasn’t even dawn so no one would be there at the moment and she had at least a couple hours before the Knights had to leave.

Wincing only slightly, she stood then peered down the ladder with caution, glancing around to make sure that Jols was nowhere to be found. He would not be happy if he saw her like this. Luckily, it looked like it was just the other stable-hands. Feeling secure, she climbed down the ladder onto the ground, a silent Cavall trailing behind.

The stable-hands barely glanced at her, keeping their eyes focused on their tasks. Almost to the door, she had but a moment to celebrate her narrow escape when a familiar voice called out her name from behind.

“Bedwyr! I see you’re up early!”

Bedwyr winced then ducked into the shadows. “Good morning, Jols. I’m just getting a good start to the day,” she greeted, casually not turning around to face him. Her voice sounded dry and hoarse to her ears, and she could still taste blood on her tongue. She really should have washed up the night before.

She jumped when she felt a hand drop on her shoulder. “Well, why don’t you give us a hand then? Tamatahra usually only likes you working on him,” Jols said from behind her good-naturedly.

Bedwyr sighed, knowing she couldn’t escape it. She turned around, her face angled in the torchlight of the barn and watched as Jols’ eyes flared with alarm.

“Oh, Bedwyr! What happened? Are you alright? Who did this you?” he rapidly asked, hands fluttering around her face and shoulders before taking her hands in his.

His face was taut with righteous anger and it was this moment that always reminded her that Jols was Arthur’s man down to the base of his soul. They even fussed over her the same. 

Gently, she pried her hands from him, trying to give him a reassuring smile. Judging by his flinch, it didn’t work. With her swollen split lip, she probably had dried blood across her teeth. Nonetheless. “Don’t worry, Jols,” she assured. “I’m fine, really. Just got in a fight last night at the tavern.”

There was absolutely no reason to let him know it was in fact Bishop Germanus’ men. No reason at all.

Jols’ eyes narrowed at her. “Bedwyr,” he growled dangerously. “Who did this to you? Where were the others? Where was Tristan?”

This time, Bedwyr’s eyes glared back at him, a snarl on her lips. “Tristan is not my keeper, Jols. Nor are the others. There was a fight. I won. The end.”

They stared at each other for a moment, before Jols slumped, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Alright, fine, don’t tell me,” he said bitterly, before pointing at her. “But you better go wash up. If Arthur - or gods’ forbid, Tristan - see you like that, there’s no telling what’d they do.”

She nodded in complete agreement. “Aye, sir. I was just heading to the river myself.”

Jols nodded, waving her off and she escaped, grinning slightly at the easy release. With Cavall shadowing, she carefully weaved her way through the barracks, slipping into her room before pulling out a fresh winter tunic and breeches.

Stocked up with soap as well, she snuck out through the side gate of the fortress, running headlong across the field into the forest with nary a glance behind.

It was a few more minutes before she and Cavall arrived at her bathing spot. With a click of her tongue and a whistle, Bedwyr sent Cavall off to hunt while she started stripping and carefully undoing her braids.

Her raven-black hair once again loose and pale body naked as the day she was born, she stepped slowly into the water.

The river was waist deep and freezing, causing goose bumps across her skin. Speeding up her movements, she scrubbed down her body, trying not to wince as the soapy water cleansed her bloody knuckles and axe wound. Carefully, she leaned back and washed her hair, running her fingers through the thick tangled locks in hopes to get some of the tougher knots out.

She stayed in there until her body shivered and her lips were blue from cold. Finally, Bedwyr rose from the water and stepped out, shaking herself like a dog to get the excess droplets off. Quickly, before the freezing set in, she rebound her chest then put on the fresh winter tunic and breeches.

As she was just adjusting her sash and sword to her back, Cavall burst through the brush, a dead rabbit caught in his bloody muzzle with his eyes dancing happily at her. He sprawled down at her feet, placing his prey between his paws and panting slightly before diving into his meal.

Bedwyr chuckled, and then sat down cross-legged beside him, breathing deeply and relishing in the fresh, crisp scent of snow not yet on the ground. Winter was certainly coming. 

With practiced movements (but painful, given her bruised knuckles), the young Sarmatian woman started to weave through her wet, black hair with delicate fingers. The braids were a part of her heritage – or rather Bedwyr’s heritage - and she had been plaiting them for well over 15 years, adding birds’ feathers to symbolize freedom as well as carved wooden beads given to her from the other Knights as signs of family and friendship, and one metal dragon clasp from Arthur as a promise of loyalty.  

Braiding with little concentration, she fell into a trance-like state, eyes closed and listening to the sounds of the forest and the babble of the river beside her.

Eventually, she finished and with a slight groan from stiff muscles and even stiffer wounds, she stood to look at her reflection in the river. Her shaggy hair had grown longer, brushing along her shoulders while a thick fringe swept over her brow, casting one eye in shadow. One long braid swept further down than the rest, curling around her neck and ending with a raven’s single wing feather.  There were slight shadows under her eyes, accentuating the paleness of her skin, but they burned clear blue and bright in the river.

Her eyes had always been like that, and she knew it unnerved some - the intensity of her stare - and entranced others.

But never the one she wanted. 

With the dirt washed from her face, she could clearly see the bruises along her right cheek and forehead, a harsh reddish-purple in the white of her skin. Her bottom lip was swollen slightly on one side, with the skin partially broken. She frowned. There was no hiding it, then. 

Steeling herself for the eventual confrontation, Bedwyr gathered her things, enjoying the now less stiff movements of her muscles and body then clicked her tongue for her satisfied wolf to follow as she headed back to the fortress.

Nodding to the guards, Bedwyr slipped through the side gate and headed straight to her quarters once again. Her scouting gear was there and would be needed for the mission along with a few other items, such as her pack, knives, and lasso.

Upon entering the room, she noticed that her freshly washed and repaired armor was already laid out for her on the bed, gleaming in the window light.

Bedwyr bit back a fond smile. It looked like Jols was watching out for her once again.

With a huff, she dropped her dirty clothes in the hamper and headed to the bed to put on her gear.

First on was the blue-black scaled Sarmatian chest piece with jagged shoulder pads, made from metal wire, leather, and the chips of horses’ hooves. It fit her like a glove and would block most long-range weapons, save armor-piercing arrows.

Then she wrapped her damaged hands in ragged, grey cloth and slid on the thick, black leather wrist guards over her tunic’s long sleeves before putting on her riding gloves.  She tied a thick leather black sash at her waist, fitting her lasso and sheathed knives in the hooks. Her calf-high riding boots slipped snugly onto her socked feet before she tied her sheathed sword to her back, swung on her ragged dark green scarf then cloak around her neck, and stood back, glancing at herself in the mirror.

In full Sarmatian gear, she looked every bit the barbarian Knight the Woads had come to fear.

Now finished and roughly satisfied, Bedwyr grabbed her scouting pack, along with her short bow, and headed out, an ever-patient Cavall slipping through the door behind her.

She got to the barn in time to notice that all of the Knights were gathered inside already with a resentful and bitter air in the room as they silently prepped their own horses and gear.

Once again, the youngest Sarmatian knight mentally prepared herself before walking into the stable, keeping to the shadows. Maybe her brothers-in-arms wouldn’t notice.

“Bedwyr ,” came the rough greeting and nod from Dagonet. He had barely glanced at her, still busy looking after his own horse and saddle.

“’Morning, Dag,” she answered back, head down and hoping her fringe covered the worst of it. She narrowly escaped the distracted Galahad and Gawain, also giving some head-down mumbled greetings before wandering over to Tamatahra’s stall.

Her beautiful horse was pawing the ground impatiently, brown eyes eagerly watching her as she approached, and she caressed his snout to calm him. With a whistle, he stilled and she painfully hefted his horse blanket then saddle onto his back and tied her gear to it with leather straps.

Her movements were stiff and slow due to her injured hands, and while he didn’t shift anxiously like the other horses, Tamatahra did nuzzle her arm once as though to hurry her along. She chuckled lightly and batted his questing nose away.

 “What’s with the mutt, Bedwyr?” Lancelot asked from his horse’s stall next to hers.

Feeling a few curious eyes on her, Bedwyr kept her head down, absently tightening the rest of Tamatahra’s gear. “What do ya mean?” she asked, casually.

“He hasn’t left yer side yet, lad,” Bors called out from a few stalls over. He sounded groggy and grumpy, but that was Bors for you. “Normally, he’s jumping around between us all like an excited pup. But now he’s just sitting there, watching ya.”

Bedwyr merely hummed noncommittally, glancing out of the corner of her eye. Right outside Tamatahra’s stall, her wolf Cavall sat still on his haunches, staring her with an alarming intensity. He had done this before when she was injured, never letting her out of his sight until he was sure she wasn’t going away. She sighed. He’d be like this at least for the next few days.

Suddenly, a small, brunette head popped up around the stall’s corner. It was Bors’ third youngest, Gilly. Sucking his thumb, he was watching her with wide, dark eyes taking in the bruises on her face and cut lip. He opened his mouth to say something and she put a finger to her lips, shaking her head frantically. 

With the Knights’ current anger, they’d be more likely to slaughter the bishop and his Romans than complete the mission, and her little encounter last night would be just the tipping point they needed.

The bratty child ignored her. “Were you in a fight, Auntie Bedwyr?” he asked innocently.

A few of the Knights laughed at his words and her face flushed slightly. The children had always called her Auntie Bedwyr, no matter what she did or said to disprove it, and thinking that she was a man, her fellow Sarmatians thought this to be a roaring good laugh at her expense.

Bors in full riding gear came around the corner, grinning slightly as he hefted Gilly up onto his shoulder. “Of course, he was in a fight, Gilly! It’s in the Sarmatian blood,” he chuckled then turned to look at her. “Ain’t that right, Bedwyr?”

When he saw her face, his dark eyes widened and she caught the exact moment that the burly, bald knight noticed the bruises and the cut lip, because Bors turned a rather impressive red and his body tensed with anger, even with Gilly balanced on his shoulder.

“You didn’t have that last night, lad,” he growled accusingly - and loudly much to her ire.

Never one for subtlety, Bors.

Knowing she couldn’t deny it, Bedwyr nodded, blue eyes shifting for an escape out of her stall, just as Dagonet, Galahad, and Gawain peered in at her with questioning looks.

Their expressions immediately darkened as they saw her injuries. Lancleot was now examining her over his horse’s shoulder while she could see Arthur and Jols walking up to Tamatahra’s stall as well.

“Who did that to ya, eh?” came a casual voice that hid a deadly menace, and she turned back to find Tristan watching from his horse’s stall, darkly intense half-lidded eyes filled with emotions she could not name.

She shrugged her shoulders, trying to dismiss the abrupt focus of the Knights and the rising anger. “Oh, ya know, just a tavern brawl, really,” she answered, keeping her voice even.

Bedwyr glanced at Jols, who had a distinctly telling look on his face, clearly indicating that he was not helping her out of this.

Suddenly, a large hand grabbed her chin, and thrust her face toward the light as though to get a better look. Dagonet’s eyes darkened even more, making the scar on his face stand out in the light, as he completely ignored the fact that she was glowering up at him.

“Well, your jaw’s not broken and it’s not like you have the head sickness either,” he grumbled, letting her face go. He glared down at her while she tried not to squirm under his accusing gaze. “Who did this to ya? Most of the people of the fortress know not mess with ya, by now.”

The others were little help, all crossing arms and waiting patiently for her answer.

“Well, I guess some of them needed to be reminded,” she snapped blithely. “And they were reminded last _night_. I won, thanks for asking.”

If anything, the knights’ glares hardened and she ran a hand through her hair with a sigh. Really, sometimes they were just overprotective.

“Well, of course, ya won, lad,” Gawain assured her indulgently, still looking displeased. “We just wanna make sure that it won’t happen again.”

She shook her head. “It won’t.” 

Bedwyr could still feel Tristan’s hooded gaze on her and the rest of the Knights were muttering dark curses under their breath, but it appeared like they were going to back off.

Arthur gave her a painfully disappointed face that nearly made her feel guilty. “Did you hurt anything else?” he asked gently but sternly.

She opened her mouth in denial, at the same time that Bors snorted. “Oi, what ‘bout those stiches on ya ribs then? You open ‘em? Vanora’ll kill you if ya did,” he said casually, and seven pairs of eyes whipped around to stare at her with uncomfortable scrutiny.

She frantically glared at Bors. “I checked ‘em this morning, ya bastard, and they’re fine. I’m _fine_. Can we please just focus on gettin’ ready?” Her voice was nearly a whine, but really, this was foolish.

She was a _knight_ , for gods’ sake.

They continued to stare at her, and Bedwyr glared frostily back, daring them to challenge it. 

Of course, at that tense moment, the bishop walked into the barn, trailed by the monk and two of the very Romans that had attacked her the night before.

Despite the situation, her stomach filled with vicious satisfaction.

One Roman carted thick, ugly bruises around his neck, an obviously broken nose, and a limp on his right leg. The other had a nasty thick gash on his temple, a particularly ugly bruise on his right cheek, and moved stiffly, cradling one wrist at his side even as they flanked the grim-looking bishop.

Well, she could never say that Sarmatian men (and Arthur) were stupid.

Bors took one look at the Romans, another at her smug expression, and then promptly burst out laughing, walking away back to his horse’s stall with a giggling Gilly still on his shoulders before he put the lad down to scamper off. He obviously approved.

The other Sarmatians weren’t far behind, their dark eyes filling with mirth as they blatantly ignored the Romans and went back to care for their horses, biting their lips to keep from chuckling out right.

Tristan’s gaze had shifted though and he now watched the Romans with a predatory gleam in his eyes.

Noticing the fear radiating off the two guards, Bedwyr threw a brush at the stoic scout and scowled.

He looked at her impassively with a raised eyebrow.

She glowered at him, motioning with her head to the Romans than frowning in expressed disapproval.

He nodded slightly in deference and turned his attention back to Tabiti, dismissing the Romans with an almost casual shrug.

By how white his knuckles were as he gripped his horse’s brush, she could tell the Sarmatian scout was still angry, but at least, he would not do anything for now.

The Roman guards started to glower, knowing the Sarmatians were laughing at their beating from the night before, but could only bristle defensively at their master’s side.

Bedwyr sneered at them, showing a little fang and watching smugly as they paled and shuffled backward for a moment. Good to know that she hadn’t lost her touch. 

The bishop for his part graciously ignored all of this, stepping forward towards Arthur who had watched the entire exchange with an amused expression and now looked at Germanus’ seriously. 

“To represent the Holy Court, my trusted secretary Horton,” the Roman bishop started then turned and called back, “Horton!” the monk came running up to his side like a dog. “Horton will be accompanying you on your quest.”

Bedwyr wanted to groan even as the other Knights glared resentfully at the Roman watchdog.

First, they were wandering willingly into Woad territory; now, they had to babysit a self-righteous mouse?

Bedwyr noticed Jols in particular glaring hard at the monk, a displeased frown on his face, as he prepped the rest of Arthur’s armor.

There was a moment before Arthur nodded in reluctant agreement. “Jols, find him a horse.”

Jols scowled but did as his master asked, walking the monk down the stables toward where a few of the auxiliary horses were kept.

Germanus looked at Arthur, beaming and performing the sign of the cross. “Godspeed as you fulfill your duty to Rome.”

Arthur glared at him, before stepping forward, looming over the smaller Roman threateningly. “My _duty_ ,” he grit out with a viciousness Bedwyr had never known, “is to my _men_.”

The bishop’s grey eyes considered Arthur before he shrugged indifferently. “Then get them home,” he drawled before leaving, the two Romans flanking him by his side.

Bedwyr couldn’t help herself as she chuckled darkly after them. “Hey, wasn’t there another one of you?”

The Romans turned and glared hard at her, one guard even going so far as stepping toward her, but he stopped when he caught sight of Bors and Dagonet, both eyeing him and casually fingering their weapons in a very threatening way. 

Bedwyr grinned cheekily then waved as the Romans retreated through the barn door.

Arthur sighed in an exasperated manner, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You didn’t actually kill one, did you, Bedwyr?”

She scoffed, feigning an insulted look. “Of course not. How would they learn otherwise?”

Bors laughed outright at her quip while Dagonet smirked, clapping her proudly on the shoulder. Even Arthur’s mouth twitched upwards though he didn’t smile before he glared at her sternly.

“Well, just try to keep out of any more fights, alright?” he asked. “The last thing we need is for the bishop to get his robes in a bunch over a few of his guards going missing.”

She nodded, attempting to look probably chastised, and he considered her doubtfully before walking toward his own horse.

When Arthur looked back, Bedwyr, Jols, Horton, and the rest of the Knights stood there, awaiting his order faithfully while holding the reins of their own horses.

Arthur looked at them all with soft eyes, before his gaze hardened with determination, his body stiffening as the duty of his station fully set upon his shoulders. “Let’s go.”

Bedwyr nodded, her mouth set in a grim line as she rose to the top of Tamatahra in a single fluid motion. The rest followed easily, and with a steady lead from Arthur, the warriors burst out of the barn on horseback and into the morning light.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Teach me to feel another's woe, to hide the fault I see,  
> That mercy I to others show, that mercy show to me." 
> 
> \- Alexander Pope 
> 
> In which an ambush gives to way to confusion, and Bedwyr forgives.

**

Bedwyr breathed through her nose evenly as the comforting motion of Tamatahra beneath her slowed to a stop. At her side, an alert Cavall stilled like a black shadow, blending easily into the darkness of the trail and the rising mist in the forest.

As scout, she had ridden several lengths ahead of the rest of the Knights.  Now, her sharp eyes peered into the darkness of the night, looking for any signs of an ambush.

And she had found them.

Heart beating steadily faster and narrowed blue eyes never leaving the shadows, she clicked her tongue twice then whistled lowly. Ears perked and body tense, Cavall waited but a moment before vanishing silently into the darkness. There was a stir in the brush, but she knew that no Woad could ever hope to catch her Cavall. He would warn them – her brothers - and hopefully, Tristan would show them another path.

Carefully, she galloped forward, only for Tamatahra to rear back with loud snort as arrows flew from the shadows to hit the tree in front of her. They were strung with thick ropes, creating a web and cutting off her trail. With a twist in her saddle, she turned Tamatahra’s reins down another path, just as the Woads’ chanting reached her ears.

Tamatahra reared back again as more arrows shot from the brush, effectively cutting off her other route. She twisted her horse around to retreat back only to find that it was closed to her as well – the thick vine-like rope twisting mockingly in front of her.

With a grim scowl, she realized she was trapped, surrounded on all sides by Woads and caged by ropes. The chanting increased then stopped abruptly.

With a grimace, she withdrew her sword from her back, eyeing the silently watching shadows in the brush. They carried bows and arrows with them, all aimed at her, and she knew then that there was slim chance she would get out of this alive.

“ _So, you are the one we call the Esyllt. The Beautiful,”_ an older, hoarse voice rang out in the Pict language, and even though she had never met him, Bedwyr knew immediately who it was. _“A woman warrior that drinks ale with kings and battles the fates.”_ There was a rustle and a shift, as more Woads appeared out of the brush, stepping closer to her, their dark eyes never wavering from their trapped prey. “ _I however will call you Morrígan. The Raven that follows Death.”_

Bedwyr stilled, for a moment, gripping her reigns tightly in one hand even as a shiver crept up her spine. He knew – _they_ knew - she was a woman. She shook herself, steeling her eyes and watching as the Woads refused to meet her wild, icy gaze.

Well, it didn’t matter.

Dropping her weapon down to her side, her eyes stayed trained on the Woads even as she called out haltingly in their language. “ _And you are the one they call Merlin, the Dark Magician and enemy of my friend_.”

Merlin’s voice chuckled, but still she could not place him among the shadowed faces of the Woads. _“Oh? But I am not_ your _enemy? You who killed my brethren?”_

_“And you who killed mine?”_  Bedwyr hissed, peeling back her lips in a feral snarl and raising her sword slightly. The Woads jerked nervously, keeping their arrows trained on her.

Beneath her legs, Tamatahra shifted and stomped his hoof, snorting clouds of mist in the cold air.

_“Ah, we have much to learn from each other, don’t we?”_ Merlin whispered from the surrounding brush. _“But that depends on you, doesn’t it, little Morrígan?”_

Bedwyr bowed her head slightly, feeling a helplessness grip her. They could kill her at any moment.  _“What do you want? What are you waiting for?!”_ she asked, defiant but determined to keep him speaking.

“ _For him, of course_ ,” Merlin answered mockingly and she bit her lip, knowing he spoke of Arthur. “ _And is he worth dying for, little Morrígan? This Artorius and his Knights? If I asked you now to give up, would you? For them? Your brethren?”_

She gritted her teeth, feeling her heart beat wildly in her chest even as she answered. “ _Yes, of course. I would die for them happily if it meant they would live to return home. You know this. You’ve seen it._ ”

“ _I have_ ,” Merlin acquiesced. She could almost see him, nodding. “ _But I have not seen such devotion from him. Perhaps we should put it to the test, eh?”_

“Bedwyr!”

Heart stopping, she whipped her head around just as she heard Cavall howl into the darkness. Far down the trail, she could just about make out Arthur and the Knights riding towards her with a battle cry, their weapons gleaming in the trickle of moonlight through the trees. In a flash, she spurred Tamatahra as close as possible to the ropes which caged her, ignoring the arrows which grazed her arms and legs in warning.

“No!” she roared at the top of her lungs. “Arthur, go back! It’s a trap!”

Still, they spurred on, either uncaring or having not heard her pleas.

She turned back to the Woads, eyes desperate and wild. “ _Please, please, do not hurt them.”_

_“It is out of my hands,”_ Merlin said, a feigned sort of sadness in his tone.

Thinking quickly and frantic beyond belief, Bedwyr flew herself down from Tamatahra and onto the ground. An arrow thudded in front of her feet in warning, but she ignored it. Letting the reins go, she dropped her sword at her side and fell to her knees, bowing her head to the Woads in submission with her palms flat on the ground.

“ _Please,”_ she pleaded into the ground, hating the desperation in her voice but knowing there was no other option. “ _You can stop this. Artorius is a good man – a great one – as are they who ride at his side. They can change things. Please give them a chance. Let them live to prove it.”_

There was a silence, with only the wind whistling in her ears and the sound of horses’ hooves, echoing ever closer. A knife pressed to her neck, forcing her head up to meet his gaze, and Bedwyr finally saw the man they called Merlin, watching her with unreadable black eyes as he pressed the knife deeper into her throat to draw a red, thin line. He was an older man with a long red beard and decorated in the blue tattoos of his race. A staff was gripped tightly in one hand and he walked bare-chested, wearing the cloth of the Woads.

She stared at him steadily, even when he spoke. _“He killed my son,”_ Merlin stated, his rough tone emotionless. 

“ _You killed his mother,_ ” she countered. She licked her lips, slightly before starting again. _“There is pain in every war for every man and there is blame to be laid at many doors. There are no winners here.”_

“Bedwyr!!”

“Inish! Devil ghosts!”

“Back away from him, ya bastards!!”

She heard their desperate shouts as the Knights rode closer, but still her gaze never left Merlin’s. When the young Sarmatian spoke again, there was no hesitation in her eyes or voice. “ _Speak with him. Know Artorius as a man, rather than an enemy and you will see. He is one to follow. Please, this I beg of you_.”

Merlin stared at her a moment longer, his dark gaze unfathomable in the night, before he released the knife from her neck and nodded solemnly. “ _Very well. There might be a purpose for Artorius and his Knights.”_

“ _We should kill them, Merlin,”_ hissed one Woad, coming forward and aiming an arrow at her kneeling form. She stared down its shaft at him with a calm she didn’t feel and watched when the Woad’s hands shook but raised the arrow again even as he spoke. “ _He is our enemy!”_

“No!” someone roared desperately from close behind her. For a moment, it sounded like Tristan. Bedwyr forced herself to keep still.

_“So is the Saxon_ ,” Merlin replied easily, his back already disappearing into the shadows. “ _Come. We are done here.”_

There was a moment of hesitation before the Woads melted into the darkness of the brush, like ghosts into the mist.

Bedwyr held her breath a moment longer, before she released a sigh and nearly slumped over, the tension leaving her body.

“Bedwyr! Bedwyr! Are you alright?”

She nodded, shakily collecting herself a moment before grabbing her sword and standing. Tamatahra trotted up to her, nuzzling her hand in comfort just as Cavall bounded through the web of ropes to her side.

She cuffed him lightly in scolding, tilting his amber gaze to look at her. “You were supposed to draw them away, you daft little pup,” she whispered half-heartedly.

Cavall merely licked her hand, completely unrepentant, and finally, she turned to look at her brethren. Beyond her cage, Arthur and the Knights sat upon their steeds, watching her with open concern, their faces slightly pale and tense while they gripped their weapons. Behind them a few meters back, she could see Jols and Horton as well.

“Oi, you alright, lad? The bastards didn’t do anything to ya, did they?’ Bors growled out, head whipping around to glare into the trees.

Numbly, Bedwyr shook her head, not meeting any of their eyes. “I’m fine,” she breathed. “Don’t worry. We just had . . . a discussion.”

The Knights glanced at each other, and then looked at her worriedly.

“A discussion?” Gawain echoed in dark disbelief, clasping the sword in his hand tightly. “Why would they not attack?”

Bedwyr just turned and stared at Arthur, the answer in her eyes as plain as day, and Arthur nodded back grimly.

“Merlin doesn’t want us dead,” he voiced, his face bleak and conflicted in the moonlight.

Bedwyr nodded once in agreement, sheathing her sword on her back, and then turned to swing herself up onto Tamatahra without pause. Carefully, she and Tamatahra made their way around the rope cage, eventually joining the Knights on the other side with Cavall trailing behind.

Atop their saddles, the gathered men stared at her a little more, questing eyes roving her body for more wounds, and their faces darkened when they saw the bleeding cut upon her neck along with the arrow grazes along her arms and legs.

The Sarmatians then stared back at her, obviously demanding that she tell them what happened, but she shook her head, defiantly glowering back. She couldn’t talk about it now.

Arthur at least seemed to understand as his eyes softened before he turned to the rest of them, glaring until they looked away.

Bedwyr caught Tristan prowling in the back, his hooded eyes nearly glowing with anger and filled with a confusing array of emotions. His face was pale and shadowed in the moonlight, and his bow was gripped tightly in one hand with an arrow in the other. He caught her eye than turned away abruptly, the muscles in his jaw tight and tense.

Again, her heart flared with a familiar pain and flinching away, she turned to glance at the rest of the Knights, giving them a pale grin. “Perhaps we find a different path, yeah?”

The Knights weakly chuckled in relief, turning their horses around back down the open trail. 

Arthur pulled his horse close to hers, his gaze grim before he reached over and ruffled her hair in a familiar gesture. She squawked at him, brushing his hand off with a smirk as some of the color rose back in her face.

Making sure he had her attention, Arthur looked sincerely into her eyes with a relieved smile. “Be careful, alright? I can’t be losing any more of my Knights. Not when we’re so close.”

Bedwyr felt golden warmth fill her chest even as she ducked her head and nodded.

Bors and Dagonet pulled up beside her, each giving her a hard, reassuring clap on the shoulder before placing Tamatahra firmly between their horses.

Gawain and Galahad both gave wide grins as well, pulling in front of her while even Lancelot gave her a wink, sheathing his swords to his back and tossing her the water skin, which she took gratefully.

Arthur and Tristan rode ahead, both vigilant statues upon their horses, and the group continued to make ground along the trail in silence.

Eventually, Arthur called for a stop once it became too dark and too rainy to travel, and the rest easily grumbled in agreement, sending Tristan to find a proper campsite to escape the storm and start to build a fire.

On slightly shaky legs, Bedwyr stumbled off Tamatahra, feeling her knees nearly give out.  A hand clasped her shoulder, steadying her, and she looked to find a concerned if slightly wet Galahad.

“Are you really alright?” he asked, the worry evident in his voice.

She nodded back at him with a reassuring smile. “Yeah, don’t fret. Just a little tired with the day, is all.”

His green eyes watched her narrowly before Galahad grinned and nodded, releasing his hand from her shoulder. “Yeah, alright.” He paused for a moment, his face growing uncomfortable before he blurted out. “I’m sorry, by the way.”

Bedwyr raised an eyebrow, abruptly confused by the confession, and Galahad rushed to continue, waving his arms in a frantic manner. “You know about before?  I shouldn’t have said those things to ya. I never meant it.”

The youngest Knight merely stared at her Sarmatian brother before she snorted. “Yes, you did. But it’s a’right, I suppose. You were angry and upset. I’d have done the same.”

Galahad flushed and shook his head, tensing his shoulders. “I shouldn’t have said that, though. You do belong with us. You’ve been here since the beginning. You’re our brother in every way.”

Bedwyr stared at the dark-haired young man for a moment, feeling an absurd sense of guilt, but he looked so sincere and apologetic that she just smiled widely, clapping her fellow knight on the shoulder. “And you are mine. Now let’s eat. I think Cavall caught us a few rabbits. I make a mean stew, ya know,” she smirked, grabbing her herb pouch from out of her pack.

His answering grin lightened her heart and the two headed over to where the rest of the Knights were gathered around Tristan’s fire. Arthur took first watch and the Sarmatians poured their attention into the monotony of setting up camp while Bedwyr and Jols took care of the cooking with Horton sitting by the fire.

After filling themselves with the rabbit stew meal, Jols and the monk retired early while the Knights relaxed into easy camaraderie, chatting about their plans and hopes for after their discharge and covering their favorite topic – the weather.

“Oh, I can’t wait to leave this island,” Galahad moaned, scooting closer to the fire just as another streak of lightening flashed through the trees. “If it’s not raining, it’s snowing. If it’s not snowing, it’s foggy. And that’s the summer!”

Bedwyr winced in sympathy and clutched her cloak closer to her. The rain was pouring hard and while their campsite was mostly dry, stray droplets made the ground wet and cold and uncomfortable.

“The rain is good,” Tristan spoke up casually, mouth still slightly full with his second bowl of stew while he pointed at Galahad with his spoon. Bedwyr was abruptly and stupidly pleased that the fellow scout liked her cooking. “Washes the blood away.”

Bors snorted, sniffing his hands. “It doesn’t help the smell,” he scowled.

Bedwyr wrinkled her nose in complete agreement.

Beside her, Gawain glanced up with a sly grin. “Hey, Bors, do you intend to take Vanora and all your little bastards back home?”

Bors groaned aloud, bringing his hands to head. “Oh, I’m trying to avoid that decision . . . by getting killed,” he smirked before turning to his brother who sat next to him. “Dagonet, she wants to get married and give the children names,” he shook his head in defeat, “Women!”

Feeling oddly offended for her sex, Bedwyr very nearly scowled at Bors but instead, simply looked back into the fire.

Lancelot glanced up from his cot with a confused look. “The children already have names, don’t they?”

It was Bedwyr who answered thoughtfully. “Just Gilly actually.” The other Knights turned to look at her, and she shrugged before continuing. “Vanora said it was too much trouble, so she and Bors gave ‘em numbers, instead.”

“That’s interesting,” Lancelot looked over at Bors, feigning an impressed expression with a smirk. “I thought you couldn’t count.”

“Oi,” Gawain interrupted, glancing over at Bedwyr. “How’d you know that then?”

Bedwyr scowled. “I have to babysit the bastard pack sometimes when those two -,” she looked pointedly at Bors, who shifted uncomfortably under her glare, “-get busy making more.”

The Knights burst out laughing, even as Lancelot gave her a pitying look. “How’d you get wrapped up in that job?”

Bedwyr scowled again darkly, poking the fire with a stick. “Blackmail. Vanora’s a mean ass wench when she puts her mind to it.”

“Oi, that’s me lover you’re talking about,” Bors scowled, but it was ruined by the pride in his voice.

She looked up with a raised eyebrow, pointing the burning stick at him. “Doesn’t mean I ain’t right.”

The Knights chuckled lightly at that, remembering the fiery little redhead as a dragon with a temper.

Bors scowled half-heartedly at Bedwyr before snorting, his tone turning wistful. “You know, I never thought I’d get back home alive. Now, I’ve got the chance, I . . . I don’t want to leave my children.”

“You’d miss them,” Gawain answered, his face and voice solemn.

Bors nodded before chuckling. “I’d take them with me. I like the little bastards. They mean something to me. Especially number Three. He’s a good fighter.”

Lancelot smirked mischievously. “That’s because he’s mine.”

Bors glowered darkly at the womanizer over the fire, while Bedwyr merely shook her head.

“Well, I’ll miss ‘em,” she muttered aloud unthinkingly.

Bors and Dagonet looked at her, frowns obviously on their faces. “What do ya mean? You’ll be coming with us back home, won’t ya?” Bors asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

The rest of the Knights – except Tristan who darkly stared into the fire – immediately turned their heads to look at her, expectant expressions on their faces and she sighed, knowing it wouldn’t really matter.

Bedwyr scoffed, blue eyes never leaving the fire even as she wrapped her cloak more around her. "Back to what? I have no home in Sarmatia and never did. I was banished from my tribe early on, you could say."

There was a pause as the Knights glanced at one another and she wasn't surprised. She never spoke of her past before them and probably never would. 

"No," she shook her head instead, ragged black locks waving in the wind before she glanced up through the trees with a small, sad smile. "This is my home now for better or worse. I'll be staying here." 

“The Saxons are coming,” Gawain pointed out darkly, his face alit by the fire. All of the Knights now had frowns or scowls on their faces as though just realizing they could be leaving one of their own behind.

 “Well, at least, it’ll be a good fight,” she smirked, but the joke fell short at their morose expressions. She ran a hand through her hair, nodding. “Come now, brothers. It’ll be fine. You’ll go home.”

“But what about you?”  The Knights turned to Tristan, who now regarded Bedwyr with a terrifying blankness upon his face.

She tried to smile but faltered in the face of it, entranced by the flickering shadows cast by the fire on his fine male form. “I’ll be fine,” she said eventually when the silence got too big, though the words rang hollow in her mind. “I’ll make my home here. Defend it from Saxons or Romans or Woads, if need be. Don’t worry.”

Lancelot opened his mouth to say more, but Bedwyr abruptly stood up, not looking any of them in the eye and shouldering her short bow. “I’ll go relieve Arthur of second watch.”

They let her go and she walked in silence with Cavall trotting next to her, until the two came upon the young Roman commander, standing alone in the shelter of the tree and staring unwaveringly into the storm.

“Arthur,” she called out quietly. He jerked, startled with his grey eyes dark and thoughtful though they lightened slightly when he caught sight of her.

Arthur nodded to her with a smile. “Bedwyr! Come to relieve me from watch?”

She nodded easily back, smiling up at him. “Aye, go and catch some stew with the lads. I don’t think Tristan’s eaten it all yet.”

He barked a laugh, before clasping her on the shoulder and striding over toward the fire. With little grace, she sprawled at the base of the tree, setting her bow within easy reach and pulling her cloak tight around her just as Cavall lied down next to her, sharing some of his body warmth.

And with that, she settled in for a cold yet peaceful night. It would be the last for a long while.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Innovation is taking two things that already exist and putting them together in a new way."
> 
> \- Tom Freston 
> 
> In which Bedwyr unleashes chaos and saves a servant.

**

The woman stared into the wolf’s amber eyes before she declared loudly and vehemently into the snowy wind. “I hate Saxons.”

Rolling his eyes at his master, Cavall snorted then stared interestedly down at the Saxon hoard that was passing beneath them, the war drums beating harshly into the air.

Hate wasn’t really strong enough a word to voice the tumult of emotions she felt as Bedwyr turned her gaze at the endless lines of Saxon soldiers or rather raiders marching along the southern trail.

A few hours prior, Arthur had sent her and Tristan off to scout and make sure their escape routes remained open so that they could safely escort the Pope’s precious godson back to the Wall.

She had gone southwest to check on the trail through the plains while Tristan rode northeast to secure the one over the mountains. The rest of the Knights were heading to the settlement to collect the child and his family. They were supposed to regroup there.

She now hoped that her fellow scout had had better luck because at this moment, she was staring at a hoard of thousands that had decided to come up to flank Arthur and his Knights. She and Cavall were safely hidden from Saxon view at the top of a rocky cliff side, overlooking the plains.

Bedwyr peered down again, thinking quickly. At this pace, the Saxon army would overrun the Knights and be at the Roman settlement before nightfall.

That couldn’t happen. She leaned back into the snow, biting her lip and thinking of ways to help. But one scout against thousands? Even that was a bit much.

Behind her, she spotted Tamatahra standing in the forest line, patiently waiting for his master to stop lying around in the snow.

As she looked at her pack then back at the cliff the Saxons would have to pass under, a feral grin grew as an idea hit her instantly.

That could work.

**

“Cerdic! Look there!”

The great Saxon invader looked up disinterestedly first at the soldier then to where he pointed. The storm was getting slightly worse, but even still, Cerdic could just about make out the shadow of a wolf on the cliff top. Behind him, the hoard stomped forward in unison into the narrow pass and the drums of his army roared in his ears. At his side, his son Cynric also peered up the snow-covered cliff at the wolf.

Cerdic grunted, bored with the beast as it simply continued to watch them. “So?”

Then suddenly, he saw the wolf raise its muzzle and howl, loud and deeply into the wind before vanishing from sight.

There was a heavy pause before Cerdic’s sharp eyes caught an arrow of fire head straight for the side of the cliff, right as he and a majority of his army were entering the narrow pass.

How the fire on the arrow didn’t die in the wind, Cerdic didn’t know - and it was the least of his concerns because as soon as the arrow reached the cliff, there was a flash and a roaring clap of fire as though Thor himself had struck the rock with a bolt of lightning.

With a rumble that shook the earth, large chucks of rocks broke free, soaring down onto his army as the Saxons screamed in terror. The horses and soldiers panicked, breaking their lines as more stones fell from the explosion and the ground shook with each impact.  As Cerdic spurred his horse ahead of the chaos, there was another sharp crack when more rocks and a massive amount of snow fell from the top of the cliff, all rolling down the hill in a sprawling, heavy rush and taking out most of his cavalry.

When the snow and dust finally settled, Cerdic found that the trail behind him had been blocked by the rocks, with at least two hundred of his men buried beneath the rubble while the rest had yet to enter the now blocked narrow trail.

The Saxon war leader whipped his head up to glare at the cliff side that had caused the tragedy.

With narrowed eyes, he spied the shadow of a soldier and his black horse at the peak of the now-destroyed cliff, a wolf howling at his side. When he blinked, the rider and wolf were gone and the cliff top was empty.

For the first time since he started the campaign, Cerdic started to smile.

_Now, there’s a man worth killing._

**

Bedwyr nearly slumped in relief as she spotted the Roman settlement, feeling Tamatahra’s sides heaving in exhaustion as she spurred the horse onwards. Even Cavall was lagging slightly, trailing at least a length behind.

She stormed through the open gates, sparing a brief moment to wonder at the guards’ stupidity before riding through the main courtyard to where she could already see a few of the Knights. She spotted Bors first, coming to a halt beside him.

He opened his mouth to greet her, but she cut him off. “Where’s Arthur?”

The bald knight shrugged then nodded toward what looked like a crowd of peasants. She frowned but then spurred Tamatahra towards where she could see her commander. He had his sword raised and it looked like Arthur was on one of his lectures as well, righteous fury burning like a light through every fiber of his being.

He had just finished ordering one of the peasants to help rally the crowd when he saw her. She nodded in greeting to him before reporting. “The Saxons are coming from the south.”

“How many?” Arthur asked, looking up at her.

Bedwyr stared at him grimly. “An entire army.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened but he nodded as she continued. “I was able to stall the largest portion of the army but only for about two days, maybe less.” Arthur looked startled at that and opened his mouth to ask a question, but she quickly waved him. “Before I left, I saw the army split. At least 200 soldiers head here now and they should be here by nightfall.” She glanced around a little frantically. “Where’s Tristan?”

“Here,” Bedwyr and Arthur turned to catch Tristan riding up, a foreboding expression on his face. “I saw the same. They have flanked us to the east, trying to cut off our escape to the south.”

Arthur glanced between the two scouts thoughtfully as they sat shoulder to shoulder on their mounts, looking every inch the warriors of old. “And the only way out is to the south?” he asked.

Bedwyr shook her head even as Tristan answered. “East. There is a trail heading east across the mountains. It means we have to cross behind Saxon lines, but that’s the one we should take.” Tristan paused then glanced around at the panicking peasants gathering their belongings onto wagons and being escorted by soldiers. “Arthur, who are these people?”

Arthur considered Tristan carefully before he answered. “They’re coming with us.”

Bedwyr grimaced, catching the darkening look in Tristan’s eye before she commented harshly. “Arthur, we might not make it this way.”

Arthur glared at her, but she simply scowled back before burrowing on. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t try. Just that it will be difficult. They will have to keep with our pace and they might have to fight. Have you told them that?”

Their commander sighed, shaking his head. “No, but I will.”

Bedwyr nodded, slightly satisfied while Tristan merely sat stoically on his horse, as though refusing to comment.

“Come on! Get back to work!”

Arthur and the two Knights glanced over to where a few Roman guards were forcing some peasants to wall up what looked like a dungeon.

Bedwyr shared a meaningful glance with Tristan just as Arthur marched over to them, his sword clasped tightly in his hand. They flanked him on their horses, knowing he would need the help.

Arthur raised his sword threateningly at the soldiers. “Move. Move!”

The guards wisely backed away as did the peasants. Arthur took a long look at the stone wall, pressing his fingers against it while turning his ear to listen in.

Bedwyr kept her bow aimed at the guards, just as the rest of the Knights rode up, having seen the commotion.

Arthur whipped his head around, glaring at the guards. “What is this?” he hissed.

One of the peasants – a monk, now that Bedwyr got a good look at him – rushed forward as though to stop him. “You cannot go in there. No one goes in there. This place is forbidden.”

That was the wrong thing to say to Arthur as an unforgiving glint entered his gaze before he roughly pushed the monk out of the way. As the rest watched, Arthur took one more look at the Wall before glancing at his Knights. “Dagonet.”

Bedwyr and Tristan stiffened and shared a worried frown just as Dagonet nodded and swung himself down from his horse and stormed to the wall, axe in hand.

Bedwyr caught sight of a heavyset Roman noble rushing forward, face puffed up in superior indignation. “You! What are you doing?! How dare you do this?”

Dagonet raised an axe and slammed against the wall with a grunt. The stone gave a little but didn’t fall.

“Arthur,” Lancelot cried out. “We don’t have time.”

“Don’t you hear the drums?” Galahad added doggedly.

Arthur ignored them all, his gaze unwavering from the dungeon wall.

Bedwyr tilted her head, listening to the wind as the Saxon drums grew louder. She bit her lip, feeling her heart speed up with every beat. Around them, the peasants were watching with wary eyes, the wagons full and ready to depart.

With a roar, the wall crumbled and Arthur strode forward before glancing back at one of the wavering soldiers. With a snarl, he put out his hand. “Key!”

The soldier mumbled and shook his head. Arthur glanced once again to Dagonet just as the giant strode forward and knocked down the door with a vicious kick. Arthur and the large Knight descended into the dungeon pit. With but a moment’s hesitation, Lancelot and Gawain strode forward as well, dragging a monk with them into the darkness.

Bedwyr watched the dungeon for a moment longer, feeling an intense unease before she swallowed and swung herself from her horse. Cavall shadowed her side as she walked over to where she could see the Roman’s family.

“You!” she barked out, pointing at the Roman’s noble son. Their guards clustered nervously but she ignored them with a cursory glance, looking only to where the thin boy stood next to a woman who was most likely his mother. The youth met her gaze evenly, which was impressive. “Are you the one they call Alecto?”

After a moment, he nodded.

Bedwyr’s blue eyes considered him for a moment before she looked down at Cavall, whose amber gaze met hers meaningfully. Making sure she had the wolf’s full attention, Bedwyr pointed at Alecto then whistled lowly once, and then twice in a staccato. Before the guards could even ready their blades, Cavall jumped through the ring of weapons before sitting down on his haunches and taking his position in front of Alecto and his mother.

The heavyset Roman noble charged forward toward the woman and boy. “What is the meaning of this – this beast?!” he yelled, reaching toward the woman.

Cavall snarled at him, fangs flashing and hackles raised. The Roman backed away in terror before glaring at Bedwyr and pointing. “You?! What are you doing, setting this beast upon me?! How dare you?”

She turned away, ignoring him just in time to see Alecto nervously reach out to pet Cavall’s fur. The youngest knight caught the mother’s eye from where she was kneeling. “His name is Cavall. He will guard you and your son until death, if need be. Treat him well.”

The woman eyed her for a moment before nodding slowly. Satisfied that she was understood, Bedwyr turned away to regard the chaos in the courtyard as more and more peasants clustered in a tight circle.

Looking at the wagons laden with weight, she frowned, thinking of the drums beating in the distance, before the knight looked back resolutely at the Roman lady. “Oi, where do you keep the oil for yer lamps?”

The noblewoman paused, biting her lip before motioning over toward the main house. “It’s kept in the storage.”

Bedwyr grimly smiled before turning and running off, her sword bouncing against her back.

“Oi, Bedwyr! Where you off to?!” Bors shouted behind her. The Knights had gathered over by the dungeon wall and all turned to watch her disappear through the main gates and into the nobles’ house.

She called over her shoulder. “To stock up! Won’t be a minute. Head out and I’ll catch up!”

Her feet pounded across the marble floors as she ran through the house. She’d never been in such finery before and took a moment to appreciate it before focusing on her task. The villa was empty of life and completely gutted, looking at the overturned rooms and beds. She had no idea where the storage would be so instead, she looked in every room for the kitchens, hoping that it wouldn’t be far from there.

When she finally reached what looked like a scullery, there was a fire still going in the corner and Bedwyr had but a moment to take in the state of the kitchen before she ducked and rolled quickly, dodging what looked like a butcher’s knife.

Tensing, she immediately drew her sword from her back and glanced to where an elderly man stood in a fighting position.

“ _Ye’ll never get me, ya Saxon bastards_!!” he cried out, swinging haphazardly the knife around the room and knocking pots and pans from their handles.

Bedwyr kept her sword raised, face turned down in a frown as she considered the man. He was nearly bald with only wisps of white hair along his skull. His body was thin and gnarled from what looked like long years of labor even as he was dressed the Roman garb of a servant. Bandages covered his eyes which meant he was blind from what she could tell, but she could still make out his Woad tattoos along the side of his face.

“ _Pardon me, elder,_ ” she announced in his language, sheathing her sword once more. He stopped his frantic movements, tilting his head toward her. “ _I am no Saxon. I am Sarmatian. I come with Artorius Castus to escort the Roman family back to the Wall. Should you not be outside with the others?_ ”

He barked a laugh, a cold and bitter thing that nearly made her wince even as the knife dropped to his side. “ _As if those Romans pigs would think to save an old, blind Pict like me. I’ve been here twenty years, lad. I think I know better than ye that no one will save me.”_

Bedwyr frowned again at the ‘lad’ comment but moved on with all the determination of someone who had spent over 15 years at Arthur’s side. _“Well, I will save you. You will go home. No man – Roman or Woad – should suffer the Saxons.”_

The old man appeared to look towards her, as though considering the idea before he shook his head, face crumpling a little in helplessness. “ _No, lad, I’m far too old for the journey. I’d never make it.”_

“ _And you would not even dare to try?”_ she growled, denying such depressing thoughts. She didn’t want to leave the man – a servant who had suffered so much already. Bedwyr shook her head in frustration before marching forward, grabbing the man’s wiry limbs fiercely. “ _You are coming with me. I won’t take no for an answer. But first, can you tell me where the storage room is?”_

The old man’s brow furrowed in confusion, even as her hand clutched his. “ _The storage room? It’s in the back on the other side of the main house.”_

Bedwyr cursed aloud, knowing she was losing precious time. Carefully, she started dragging the man with her towards the hall. “ _Very well. We need to go there and we need to go now. Will you lead me there?”_

The old man looked bewildered, his knife clutched loosely in his fist before his mouth settled into a grim, thin line and he nodded. “ _Aye, lad. I’ll take ye there_.”

They rushed through the rest of the house, with Bedwyr guiding the old man through obstacles as he recited the steps and pathways. Eventually, they made it to a wooden door hidden by a red curtain.

With instructions for the old man to stay outside, Bedwyr opened the door and strode into the dark storage room. There were barrels of wine, vats of food, and some old smoked meat that she put into her pack, but her blue eyes narrowed into the dim light as she struggled to find what she was looking for.

There.

The knight grinned as she lifted up three large flasks of fire oil that sloshed thickly with their contents. Perfect.

With a grunt, she threw them over her shoulder, hefting the weight, and then rushed outside. The old man was still waiting for her so without a word, she grabbed his hand and started running toward the exit, hearing his feet stumbling slightly behind her.

“ _Oi_ ,” she gasped, grinning with the success of her mission. “ _What’s your name, elder?”_

The old man was panting with exertion, but she could hear the smile in his voice. _“Oberon. And yours, lad?”_

“ _Bedwyr_ ,” she answered simply back, panting slightly as the weight of the flasks started to wear on her body.

Just as they ran into the open air, she heard him gasp and choke, nearly tripping as she pulled him roughly along. “ _The Esyllt,”_ he whispered in awe. “ _To think I’d live to hear your voice .  . .”_

She ignored him easily, focusing instead on where Tamatahra was waiting by the gates that led to the main house. The Saxon drums beat loudly in the distance, obviously closer than before, and beyond the gates, she could just make out the caravans with her fellow Knights leaving through the largest doors of the peasant courtyard and disappearing into the dark wood trails.

With a frantic beat of her heart, Bedwyr whistled once and the black horse perked its head up before trotting to her eagerly. With barely a pause, she swung the flasks onto her pack, tying them securely before she took Oberon’s hand in hers, guiding it toward the saddle. “ _Come now, elder. This is Tamatahra. He will take us to my brothers._ ”

The old man was probably in shock because he allowed her to easily guide him up onto Tamatahra’s back before she swung up in front. “ _Now, wrap your arms around me. We’re going to go fast.”_

His wiry arms tightened around her waist just as she whistled once. Tamatahra snorted then stomped his foot before taking off into a gallop.

A screech from above caught her attention and she glanced up to spot Tristan’s hawk banking in the snowy winds above her. In the distance, the Saxon war drums rumbled again.

It was a several minutes of silent but frantic riding before the two caught up with the others.

Bedwyr greeted Tristan first, who was stationed near the back. His dark eyes roved her body, obviously checking for injury before glancing meaningfully at her passenger. He raised an eyebrow and she shrugged in answer before pushing Tamatahra on towards the middle of the caravan pack, where she could see wagons.

“Oi, Bedwyr!” Galahad greeted with a slight grin from atop his horse. “You pick up something along the way?”

She snorted, disregarding the other Knight just as Oberon’s arms tightened slightly around her waist. “ _Just ignore him, elder,”_ she said playfully, patting the older man’s gnarled hands. “ _He’s just surprised at seeing someone else astride on Tamatahra. It’s a privilege granted to very few.”_

Oberon at her back nodded hesitantly but said nothing as the two made their way through the wagons and caravans. The peasants and Roman soldiers stared openly but Bedwyr ignored them, pulling her horse up to side of the wagon where she could see the noble family (save the fat one) on the inside.

She was surprised to spy Dagonet in the wagon as well, his large form bent over something.

“Oi, Dag!” she called out. “Mind giving me a hand?”

The large Sarmatian lifted his head, dark eyes widening slightly when he spotted her then her passenger. With a grim look, he pulled back the curtain. Bedywr frowned when she saw a young boy, obviously ill and lying on a cot at the bottom of the wagon. In the corner, her sharp blue eyes also spotted a dark-haired woman, covered in Woad tattoos and equally injured.

She looked back at Dagonet with a deep scowl, a grim picture forming in her head. “They from the dungeons?”

Dagonet nodded stiffly, jaw tense with anger, but didn’t elaborate.

A white, hot fury filled her stomach and her fists tightened over Tamatahra’s reigns before she breathed out, looking up at the Knight then tilting her head toward Oberon. “Can you help him get on the wagon? And check him over? It seems the Romans have forgotten a lot of things.”

The larger Sarmatian nodded in answer.

Bedwyr turned to glance meaningfully at Oberon, patting his hand on her waist. “ _Oberon, this is Dagonet. He will be helping you to the wagon, alright? There’s a Pict woman in there as well. If you can, please help her._ ”

Oberon frowned but allowed himself to be pulled up onto the wagon by the Knight. Bedwyr waited a moment to make sure that the blind man was situated, before looking again into the wooden carriage.

A dark head popped out of the curtain through a window and she noted it was the young Roman – Alecto. He regarded her grimly, and over his shoulder, she spied his mother – tending to the little, wounded boy.

“Oi, Alecto,” she greeted. He turned to her, startled. “Where’s my wolf?”

The youth grimaced and shuffled before a familiar furry head popped up right next to the boy, amber eyes dancing with mirth and pink tongue lolling.

Bedwyr laughed outright upon seeing that her wolf had taken advantage of the situation.

A few of the peasants and soldiers scowled at the bright noise of her laughter while the Knights merely glanced over to her, surprised to hear such a happy sound in their grim surroundings. “You cheeky bugger! I told ye to watch him, not catch a ride! Lazy wolf.”

Cavall merely panted again before disappearing into the wagon. She grinned at Alecto and the dark-eyed youth smiled tentatively back at her. “Take care of him for me, will ya?”

Alecto nodded, mouth in a thin line, and she smiled softly at him before spurring Tamatahra up toward where she saw Lancelot and Arthur in conversation.

“We’re moving too slowly,” she heard Lancelot saying to Arthur. “The girl’s not going to make it, and neither is the boy. The family we can protect, but we’re wasting time with all these people.”

“People are never a waste, Lance,” Bedwyr greeted, halting Tamatahra next to them. “At least not to our leader. You should know that by now.”

Lancelot scowled just as Arthur nodded to her grimly. “Bedwyr, glad to see you could join us.” She nodded back as he continued. “Bors mentioned he saw you head to the Roman house and that you told him to go on ahead. What were you doing in there?”

She grinned at them, motioning toward the flasks on her pack. “Just picked up a few supplies. They could help us even the odds a bit.” Lancelot and Arthur eyed each other, before looking at her expectantly. Bedwyr merely shook her head. “Oh, no. I don’t reveal all my tricks yet. Let’s just say that the Saxons might be in for a bit of a surprise, if they find us.”

Lancelot scowled darkly again, glaring at Arthur in mutiny. “If they find us, we’ll have to fight.”

“Then save your anger for them,” Arthur retorted with a growl in his throat, his grey eyes flashing dangerously.

Lancelot looked taken back, dark eyes wide before his gaze narrowed at Arthur. “Is this Rome’s quest or Arthur’s?” he hissed before turning his horse toward the back.

Arthur shared a resigned look with Bedwyr before squaring his shoulders.

The young Knight straightened to attention in her saddle, bright blue eyes intent upon her commander. “What do you want me to do, Arthur?” she asked seriously.

The Roman commander nodded once grimly, a flash of gratitude on his face before his features hardened with steely determination. “Stall them by any means necessary. You know this terrain better than any other. Even Tristan. Use that against them to slow them down,” he ordered.

Bedwyr rolled her shoulders slightly, feeling them stiffen and creak, and then looked over to where Tristan sat perched on his horse Tabiti in the back. His sharp eyes were looking toward the shadows of the trees, his body taut like a wire with battle-ready tension.

She turned back to Arthur. “Make sure Tristan guides you from now on. There’s a tricky path up ahead and you’ll need him to clear it of any Saxon scouts.”

Arthur nodded in agreement, before his grey eyes caught hers. “Don’t take any risks. Be careful. And God be with you.”

She flashed him a sincere smile, turning Tamatahra over toward the back. “Will do. I’ll scout their numbers first and be back before midnight. Prepare for chaos.”

Bedwyr galloped toward the back, her face turning grim as she considered her mission. Passing the last of the caravan, she nodded once to Tristan and he nodded back to her in return, a myriad of emotions casting shadows across his face before his impassive features settled into one clear message.

_Be safe. Come back._

Her throat closed up before she gave a feral grin then whistled high into the air, spurring Tamatahra onward toward the Saxon hoard. On her back, she felt Tristan’s heavy gaze trail her into the deepening shadows of the night.

_Always._


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Brave men rejoice in adversity, just as brave soldiers triumph in war."
> 
> \- Lucius Annaeus Seneca
> 
> In which there is a myth, a prophecy, and Bedwyr faces battle alone.

**

“Oi, Sir Knight. Is the _Esyllt_ leaving us?”

Dagonet looked up from his vigil of the little boy – Lucas - to see the blind old Woad, tilting his head in question toward the window of the wagon. He glanced out the carriage just in time to catch the tail end of Bedwyr and Tamatahra as they disappeared into the shadows toward the Saxon drums.

His jaw tensed, but the large Sarmatian answered anyway. “No. Arthur’s given him a scouting mission. He won’t be gone for a too long.”

A knot tightened in his chest when he thought of the Saxon numbers - and Bedwyr facing them alone.

For Dagonet, the youngest Sarmatian had always been the most reckless of all their brothers – the first to charge into a fight and the last to retreat. It made Arthur and the older Knights fret and worry because such a youthful, bright creature should be protected from the battles and brawn of war.

Dagonet knew it frustrated Bedwyr more than anything - if only because their worry spoke little of their trust in the Knight’s prowess as a warrior who had fought and bled with the best on the battlefield.

The bigger Sarmatian loved Bedwyr like family, though. The raven-child was quick in wit and laughter even during the darkest of times. There was a soft shine in those bright, blue eyes when Bedwyr looked at the Knights, like they were people to be protected and cherished and mourned. Their fellow Sarmatian gave smiles freely to those who asked but saved an ironclad loyalty for one man – and only one. Dagonet could always respect that, especially since that man was Arthur.

Despite his silent nature, Dagonet was not a fool. Vanora had hinted long before now that there was far more to their youngest Knight than what met the eye. Dagonet could do naught but guess – and it was a fairly strong guess, too – but he figured that it meant little in the end. 

Bedwyr was a Knight and would always be one - no matter what secrets lay beneath the armor. He just hoped that his brothers – especially one certain scout - would take it just as well when Bedwyr finally revealed it.

A curtain moved and Dagonet was broken out of his musings as Arthur came on board the wagon. “Arthur,” he greeted roughly.

The commander nodded in greeting before looking at the boy. “How is he?’

Dagonet felt a grim smile pass his face, a feeling of warmth in his stomach. “He burns,” he grunted, ruffling Lucas’ blond locks in quick affection. “Brave boy.”

Arthur nodded before turning toward the Woad blind man for a moment. “And who might you be?”

The old man straightened in his cot, his bound eyes turning towards Arthur. “Oberon. I worked in the kitchens for the Romans. They left me to die, but the _Esyllt_ saved me,” he explained in halting Latin, his voice turning to wonder when he spoke of the Knight. “She said that no Woad or Roman should suffer at the hands of Saxons. She said that I could go home.”

Dagonet and Arthur shared a heavy but amused glance for it was not the first time someone had mistaken their fellow Knight as a woman. They had stopped correcting people long ago.

Then, the old man sat up in his cot. “Where is the _Esyllt_ going?” he demanded intently.

Arthur frowned at the strange Pict title, but answered anyway. “I sent Bedwyr off to scout for Saxons. He’ll be back before midnight.”

Oberon actually scowled at them, gnarled teeth curling in despair. “You let the _Esyllt_ go off on her own to fight an army of Saxons? They’ll kill her.”

Dagonet and Arthur actually chuckled this time, even while the Roman family watched fearfully with Alecto petting the wolf Cavall in comfort.

“I would worry more on the Saxons at this point. Bedwyr is a true force to behold on the battlefield,” Arthur declared fondly as Dagonet nodded in unison. “But even better as a scout. They cannot kill what they cannot see.”

The old man huffed and crossed his arms, turning his face away from them. With the conversation over, Arthur strode to the corner where the Woad woman sat while Dagonet looked back to the little boy.

Alecto spoke up in the silence, his dark eyes fixed on the blind old man. “Oberon? Why do you call Bedwyr that? The I – Isolde?”

Oberon went silent, and even Dagonet looked up for the answer.

“She is the _Esyllt.”_ They turned to find the Woad woman in Arthur’s arms, her voice breathy but intent as she looked hard at the Roman youth. “We named her that. It means the ‘Beautiful’ in our language. Long ago, our leader Merlin spoke a prophecy of a woman-warrior who drinks ale with kings and battles the fates. They say her beauty bewitches every man she comes across and that even those who die by her blade breathe her name like a final prayer. And one day when fire falls from the heavens and the shadow of a hawk passes over the Great Wall, she will step forward to follow Death in place of another and as her heart’s blood empties upon the ground, Briton will rise with a new king.”

There was silence after the solemn words were spoken, the Woad woman collapsing heavily in Arthur’s arms. Arthur met Dagonet’s eyes meaningfully, their faces grim, and they both nodded, determination etched upon their features.

_That could not be born._     

Outside the wagon, Tristan’s hands clutched his reigns tightly, his dark eyes unfathomable as he turned his gaze once again into the darkness of the surrounding brush. Beside him, the last remnants of the evening light cast the shadow of a soaring hawk upon the ground.

**

Over fifteen years spent on various battlefields, Bedwyr had learned to master several types of weapons and she had a few that were her favorites. There was her beloved sword and her short bow. There was her lance, which she used on very rare occasions – and her lasso, which she used for the capture of enemy scouts to lead them to their deaths or interrogation, if need be.

And then, there were her fire weapons.

She was never meant to learn these types of dangerous tactics.

But back when she was still Aga – being trained for the distant battlefield in place of her adopted brother – there had been a raid by an enemy tribe.

And with that raid came an attack by fire. It had left a nasty burn along the inside of her right leg so she remembered it with startling clarity –the hiss as the raider had set his arrow on fire and the terror when he then aimed it at a water-skin sack tied to a wagon near her. The sound of thunder from the ensuing eruption when arrow struck had echoed in her ears, pushing her back with such a force that she had thought the gods themselves had sought to strike her down.

When she awoke, burnt and battered but alive, the raiders were gone and the tribe was already recovering. Brushing off her wounds, young Aga had immediately sought out the wagon, staring in awe at the total destruction left in the wake of that fire arrow.

_How did he do that?_ Aga had wondered at the time. It wasn’t until she was older, more jaded, and walking among Romans as they lit their oil lamps that she realized what the raider had done.

 It had taken years of burnt fingers and fiery blasts in dark secluded clearings but eventually, Bedwyr had understood. Oil and fire and arrows were a deadly combination and perfect for causing the right amount of chaos against a larger number of enemies.

Saxons although great in quantity were still primeval in a way – marching like Romans in organized lines just made them prime targets for her plan.

Her strategy would be to attack twice with her fire weapons from the front. There was a chance that they would see her – but if she attacked from the back, it would not doubt push the panicking hoard forward towards her Knightly brothers and their precious cargo. 

Attacking Saxon lines directly was beyond dangerous and no doubt, Arthur would kill her if he ever discovered her tactics. Scouts are supposed to be subtle and unseen, picking off enemies one by one before reporting back. Bedwyr usually abided to this. But with well over 200 soldiers gaining on the Knights and their caravans, there weren’t really a lot of options.

Silently, she dismounted then led Tamatahra to a little hill just inside the forest line and a league or so ahead of the hoard. The hill was blocked by tall, black brush, but not totally cut off by the thin trees of the forest.

The Saxons would have to pass on the trail beneath her, so it was good spot for her attack.

With practiced movements, Bedwyr grabbed two water-skin sacks from her pack and filled them to the brim with the Roman oil. Then, she tied the openings up into hard, tight knots so the sacks looked like two full bubbles of liquid. They were each about the size of her hand and weighed more than a full water skin.

Once the knight was satisfied the water-skin weapons wouldn’t leak right away, she dipped the topknots in oil as well.

Now was the tricky part. With the snow coming down harder and the wind picking up in the night, lighting a fire for her weapons was going to be more than difficult. Bedwyr still had a mile and a half or so before the hoard caught up on the trail so she grabbed her flint, settled down behind Tamatahra, and got to work on a patch of well-oiled branches. Hopefully, the darkness of the night and Tamatahra’s big body would block both the wind from her fire and her fire from Saxon sight.

It took a few tries as her shivering, injured hands clutched the flint and struck it roughly together but eventually, the embers caught and glowed lightly in the wind.

Around her, the Saxon drums grew louder until there was a rumble vibrating in her chest. At her side, Tamatahra shifted nervously, giving a loud snort. The knight patted his neck in a soothing motion, keeping herself to the shadows and angling the black horse to block the light of the fire. 

Half a mile away, she spied the Saxons marching their beat with torches in their hands.

She grinned savagely in the darkness. Torches always made the fire better.

Carefully, she took her short bow from her pack, grabbing at least five arrows as well. With a cloth, she smeared oil across the arrows, slid on her thicker gloves that would protect her hands from the flame, and then she crouched on the ground to wait.

Her attack would have to be blinding fast if she was to do this right. The darkness of the night would protect her - but only for a moment.

With a steady beat roaring in her ears, her breath coming out misty in the cold, and the ground shaking from their march, the Saxons entered her line of sight.

Bedwyr swallowed. There were a lot of them – a mass of armed shadows in the light of their torches. She really hoped this worked. 

The knight stilled her breath as two of the Saxon lines passed by her spot on the hill. Carefully, she lit two of her arrows, placing them near the shrub and out of the snow to keep them lit.

Then, with a quick, steady hand, she lobbed the first water-skin weapon, aiming it at the center of the lines. By the time the bag of oil had reached the peak of its arc in the air, she had the first lit arrow in her bow, aimed at the aerial weapon, and then released.

In a golden flash, the arrow pierced the bubble of oil and it burst with a clap of thunder, casting fire-lit oil down upon the shocked hoard. The resulting torrent caused the fire to spread out in different directions as flame caught on the Saxons’ coats and wagons and even their thick-furred horses.

Screams of terror and blinding light from the growing blaze reached her senses just as she fired the next water-skin weapon, whipping her bow out in a fluid motion to release the next arrow of flame. This missile was aimed toward the direct front of the hoard, where she had spied a bald-headed young Saxon. He was roaring orders and waving his sword to get his troops under order.

The resounding, bright crack and more screams of terror were music to her ears as the oil bag burst apart once more in the air above them. The Saxon horses whinnied in fright and pain, rearing and panicking off the wagons even as Tamatahra stood like a statue at her side.

Bedwyr had trained her beloved horse until he was familiar with the loud, cracking sounds and only a twitch of his ears now betrayed his nervousness. 

Quickly, she mounted Tamatahra, grabbing the last of her arrows just as she heard the Saxons yell in her direction. The young leader had spotted her shadow on the hill and was now pointing toward her direction.

Bedwyr couldn’t help it. She laughed loudly, looking at the sheer fiery destruction left in her wake while the Saxons tried to get themselves under control. A few lines of the soldiers in the back were retreating back north of the trail while others had fled into the surrounding wood. The Woads would finish them there, she knew.

An arrow whizzed by her face and she glanced back, noting the crossbows in a few hands as well as the mounted Saxons that was heading her way. Bedwyr stilled until she was certain they would follow before she turned Tamatahra around and vanished into the forest, a savage smile on her features as she nocked her arrow.

Let them come.

Ten Saxons entered the shadows of the wood - three she felled by arrow, easily picking the archers of the pack off with her sharp eyes.

With savage roars, the rest caught up to her at a clearing along the river – their own horses causing puffs of smoke in the wind.

Quickly, she unhooked the lasso from her sash then shifted in her saddle, keeping Tamatahra steady ahead on the river bed with a whistle.

In a single practiced movement, she swung the thick rope around to catch one Saxon rider’s body and pull him from his mount. He flew to the ground hard with the momentum and she winced when the Saxon’s head cracked against the rocks.

Hearing a familiar whistle of steel against wind, she ducked just as a sword passed narrowly over her head.

In a fluid movement, she twisted down while unsheathing her own blade from her back, bringing it around hard and through the attacking Saxon’s chest before he could recover.

He fell from his horse, slain by the blow immediately, and with a blood-covered snarl, Bedwyr straightened in her saddle then turned to face the rest.

Two more enemies rode up beside her – each with raised swords - and she spun, her blade dancing in the air as she caught one Saxon deeply in the ribs – with enough force to knock him off his horse – then she brought her sword back in time to block the other Saxon’s blade from her neck.

The attacker’s blow was strong enough that her sword arm shook and she was tossed from her saddle hard, landing roughly on her still healing side onto the rocks of the riverbed.

Bedwyr heard something crack inside her body and nearly shrieked in pain before rolling to her feet, her breath coming in harsh pants. She whistled lowly once to keep Tamatahra galloping away from her even as she turned grimly to face the last four mounted Saxons, her sword in one hand while the other clutched her lasso. 

Nearly circled by the remaining enemies, the knight cracked the rope against the rocks in threat, her sharp blue eyes egging them on with a bloodthirsty fanged snarl. 

There was a moment’s hesitation then the battle began.

The first Saxon spurred his horse forward with a growl, his sword raised in the air to swipe down at her. Quick as a flash, she lashed out with her lasso, the thick rope catching his horse by the legs.

The horse collapsed in a tangle, throwing its rider, and in a blur of shadow and blade, Bedwyr rushed forward, plowing her sword through the Saxon’s stomach with one vicious swipe.

Blood sprayed over her face and arms from his wound, and she licked her lips to taste metal on her tongue.

The knight looked back in time to catch two more of the Saxons coming at her, their own swords raised in unison. With a flick of her wrist, the lasso was free again and she swung it out, catching one of the riders viciously across the face and knocking him from his horse.

Before she could think on it, the knight rolled forward to duck the other Saxon’s blade just as he rode past her. It was a narrow miss with the sword actually catching one of her braids, and she had to release her hold on her lasso as the Saxon and his horse stormed by. 

With no hesitation, she finished her roll and ran forward to bring her own sword up and through the fallen Saxon’s back from where he had struggled to get up. He fell with a roar of pain, but Bedwyr knew grimly that she had severed his spine.

With a struggling breath, she turned to face the last two of her opponents, both of whom watched her warily from their horses. Her limbs shook with exertion and pain but still she brought her sword up to eyelevel as she evened out her breathing.

The knight gave a feral, fanged grin – her teeth flashing red in the darkness. She then clicked her tongue twice lowly but loudly before speaking in their harsh Saxon tongue. “ _Come then, wenches. Feel my blade.”_

The barbarians howled at her, each rushing forward with swords gleaming in the little moonlight coming through the trees.

Carefully, she tensed and kept her sword raised. Her heart pounded steadily in her chest, matching the breath misting in front of her eyes as the riders stormed ever closer.

Five paces[1] away.

The knight angled her blade up to the right side with two hands, keeping her arms steady and able.

Three paces away.

She could feel the steamy breath of their horses and feel the roar of their battle cries in her chest.

One meter away.

With the loud snort, a large black shadow stormed into sight, tossing the Saxon warrior from his saddle with savage barrel as his horse was rolled over by the much larger Tamatahra.

The other Saxon kept his eye on Bedwyr, riding forward with a snarl on his lips.

Just as he struck down at her head, she ducked the blade slightly to the left, shifting her body and bringing her own sword up across his torso in a flash just as he passed her by.  The Saxon horse rode past her and there was a long moment before Bedwyr heard the resounding sound of a body hitting the ground with a death groan.

She nodded to herself before turning around, listening with heightened senses as her hand tightly clutched her blade.

Save for the labored breathing of the dying, there were no enemies left.

Carefully, she raised her sword and swung it back into its sheath before whistling lightly once.

Tamatahra ambled over to her side and she patted his sweaty neck, whispering soft nothings into his ear until his breathing calmed. His hooves were splattered with blood, and with a quick glance, she realized that her beloved horse had trampled the last Saxon soldier to death.

‘Such a good boy, ya are,” she murmured, her tone more than weary. The black stallion nuzzled her hand with a soft snort.

There were three now rider-less horses wandering around in the clearing, and Bedwyr wondered for a moment if she should take them with her but then shook her head.

They would delay her return more so than the Saxons had already and she still had to make her way back down the northern trail, avoid the panicking army, and pick her way through Woad territory to get back to her brothers-in-arms.

With a heavy sigh, she wearily picked her way through the battle, collecting her lasso as well as a couple of knives that the dead Saxons had kept in their coats.

Offhandedly, the knight spotted a crossbow tucked away in one of the horses’ packs and carefully, she strode forward, swiping it as well as its arrows. They were armor-piercing. Arthur would have to know of that.

Around her, the winter wind howled as snow and rain mixed into a bitter cold that weighed heavily on her cloak and scarf.

She lifted her hand out, watching as drops of water and flakes of snow fell on her blood-stained skin. “Rain and snow at once,” she echoed. “A bad omen.”

With a click of her tongue, Tamatahra stilled at her side. The knight lifted herself up and onto the saddle, clutching her broken ribs lightly as she grabbed the reins.

Another whistle from Bedwyr, and they rode out of the clearing.

Behind them, the river water stained bright red in the moonlight.

**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] A pace in Roman times was equal to 1.48 meters today. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ancient_Roman_units_of_measurement


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The strength of a family, like the strength of an army, is in its loyalty to each other." 
> 
> \- Marco Puzo 
> 
> In which someone is lost and a conversation between leaders takes place.

**

The wolf was getting nervous.

From his own post near the Roman family’s wagon, Lancelot spotted it easily.

Every time Tristan returned from a scouting mission, the wolf would glance up from the wagon, tufted ears perked and amber eyes narrowed.

Then when he realized that it wasn’t Bedwyr, the mutt would visibly droop before laying his head back down with a bemoaned sigh.

This had already happened three times over the last few hours, and Lancelot didn’t know who was more wound up – Tristan or the damn mutt.

Not that he blamed them. Their youngest knight was supposed to have returned the previous evening. And while they had heard the clash of thunder and the sudden silence of Saxon drums in the distance, the Knights had seen neither hide nor hair of their brother-in-arms.

And over the day, the Sarmatians had watched as their hawk-eyed scout grew tenser and colder with each passing hour that Bedwyr did not return.

The peasants - as did the Romans - quickly found that just mentioning the younger scout’s name brought out harsh and unforgiving glares along with stoic withdrawals of silence from the Knights.

Lancelot himself nearly snapped at Guinevere after she had inquired to his health while Gawain and Galahad came to blows that morning over a spill at breakfast.

Now, the traveling caravan rode on in heavy, bitter silence with the stormy winds whistling around them as they marched along the snow-covered trail.

In the distance, the Saxon drums began again, filling the air with foreboding.

The peasants glanced around fearfully as Lancelot shared a grim look with Arthur.

At their side, Lancelot saw Tristan’s jaw tense and his fathomless eyes dim until they were like pitch black coals peeking out from beneath his fringe. Though he would never admit it aloud, the Sarmatian scout terrified Lancelot with that silently controlled rage that consumed his soul until there was nothing but darkness left.

Only Bedwyr ever seemed to soothe Tristan when he was in such a black mood, and that was the crux of the issue.

If Bedwyr was gone, there would be nothing to hold their Sarmatian brother back.

Arthur appeared to recognize the danger as well, because he pulled his horse to a halt. “Saxons,” he announced, grimly voicing their fears. “We’ll sleep here. Take shelter in those trees.” Then, he looked at Tristan with hard eyes, titling his head toward the hawk. “Tristan.”

The scout stiffened then nodded, reaching out with the crook of one finger to pet his precious hawk. A small smirk quirked his lips as he looked at her though no light entered his gaze. “You wanna go out again?” he asked fondly.

The hawk chirped, nibbling his fingers, and Tristan nodded before throwing the bird of prey into the air.

Lancelot watched the bird fly into the winds for a moment before turning to his own task of setting up the camp.

Dinner was silent that night, and the Knights gathered by a fire away from the peasants and Romans. The flame flickered light across their grim faces as they broodingly stared at it. 

Arthur strode up to them, a heavy brow and foreboding frown creating shadows in his expression.

“Tristan,” he greeted. “I need you to scout back. See how far the Saxons are to our position. Mark out their weapons as well.”

The Knights tensed, glancing at one another even as Tristan remained seated on the log, a motionless statue with his back against the base of the tree.

He didn’t raise his head or acknowledge their leader, his dark gaze remaining hooded beneath his fringe, but without moving, the Sarmatian scout’s presence had suddenly felt dangerous.

The other Knights stiffened with apprehension while even Arthur stared at his scout expectantly.

“Oi, shouldn’t we wait till Bedwyr gets back?” Bors barked out, glaring harshly at Arthur.

Frown deepening, Arthur simply shook his head. “We can’t wait. If we’re to remain ahead of them, we’ll have to know where the Saxons are. If Bedwyr . . .” he paused, glancing away a moment and the Knights visibly wilted, their anger dissipating into a familiar despair edged with grief. Arthur visibly gathered himself before continuing, deep voice slightly hoarse. “. . . Since Bedwyr isn’t here right now, Tristan’s our only hope. Can you do it, Tristan?”

There was complete silence, save for the crackling of the fire before the impassive scout nodded once slowly, rising to his feet with lazy grace before wandering over to his horse.

“And Tristan?” Arthur called. The older knight paused but did not look back before Arthur gave one final order. “If you find him, bring him back.”

He tilted his head once then strode off into the darkness.

The Sarmatians watched their scout for a moment, waiting until Tristan had loaded up and silently left before returning to their own tasks.

Lancelot shifted to his feet then wandered over to the base of a tree, settling into the crook of it for first watch. He pulled out one of his swords to clean, the rhythmic movements stilling his thoughts like a clear pond.

There was a laugh to his right, and with narrowed eyes, he looked at the wagon next to him. In the light of it, Lancelot could just about make out the shades of two women through the curtain – the Roman noble-wife and Guinevere – and with a jolt, he realized that the Woad girl was bathing.

His breathing and body stilled as he watched.

He knew in the deepest pit of his mind that this was discourteous and he should look away, but he was entranced by the sweep of Guinevere’s neck, the soft curls cascading down her back, and the dark eyes which caught his through the curtain.

Lancelot jerked away and glanced back down at his sword, taking his cloth to scrub it clean of the debris and blood. With a determined air, he kept his gaze down, watching as the blade grew shinier with ever sweep.

“What was it like?”

He jerked and looked up to where Guinevere stood before him, clutching her cloak closer to her. The knight spied a pale collarbone, peeking out from under the cloth, and his mouth went dry.

The curly-haired Sarmatian took a moment to swallow heavily before glancing back up to meet her dark eyes. A bitter smirk stretched his features forcefully when he shrugged in answer. “We sacrifice goats, drink their blood, dance naked around fires.”

He felt her dark gaze considering him and frowned, sensing a judgment without knowing why. Well, if she wanted to the truth, then he saw no harm in it for this Woad woman, who had also suffered at Roman hands.

“All I do remember . . .” - And Lancelot bit his lip, thinking suddenly of his family lost to years apart before he continued, his tone far more wistful than he had hoped. “Oceans and oceans of grass from horizon to horizon, further than you can ride. The sky, bigger than you can imagine. No boundaries.”

She watched for another moment, her dark eyes weighing him in a manner that sent shivers down his spine before she spoke again, the words careful. “Some people would call that freedom. That’s why we fight for: our land, our people, the right to choose our destiny. So you see, Lancelot, we are much alive, you and I. And when you return home, will you take a wife? Have sons?”

The knight snorted bitterly at that. In his mind’s eye, he saw Bedwyr at fifteen years old, a bruised and pale face with world-weary blue eyes, sharply telling him that he would choose his own fate. Neither Rome nor Woads could have it. 

Then Lancelot shook his head, remembering that Bedwyr wasn’t there – could in fact be gone forever – and the Sarmatian’s bitterness returned tenfold as he scowled, shoving his sword back in its sheath. “I have killed too many sons. What right do I have to my own?”

Guinevere eyed him again, her voice solemn and accusing in the wind. “No family, no religion. Do you believe in anything at all?”

_I believe in Arthur._

The words were on the tip of Lancelot’s tongue, but instead, he stood up quickly until he was face-to-face with the Woad woman, watching her pale skin flush and feeling nothing but bone-weary sorrow.

“I would have left you and the boy to die,” he admitted harshly, before turning and striding away with her heavy gaze on his back.

Eventually, he found another corner closer to the fire, and the Sarmatian settled in for a long, sleepless night.

**

Arthur awoke to the feeling of losing something unbearably precious before he spied Guinevere disappearing into the trees. With a frown, he clutched his sword and stood before trailing after her, catching sight of her light blue cloak billowing in the wind.

She stopped in a clearing, turning to face him with those entrancing dark eyes and for a tense moment, they stared at one another.

There was a rustle in the brush and Arthur turned to look, catching sight of red hair and blue skin and a gnarled staff appearing out of the shadows towards him.

He whirled back to Guinevere with a snarl and his sword was raised at her accusingly. “You betrayed me.”

Guinevere flinched but moved to assure him, her voice strong. “He means you no harm.”

The older man stepped forward, and Arthur knew him immediately to be Merlin. “Peace between us this night, Arthur Castus. So – Rome is leaving. The Saxon is come. The world we have known and fought for is ended. Now, we must make a new world,” he said, his voice wise and wistful in the moonlight.

Arthur shook his head vehemently, wanting no part of his former enemy’s plans. “Your world, Merlin. Not mine. I shall be in Rome.”

Merlin tilted his head, his black gaze unfathomable in the night. “To find peace? The Saxon will come to Rome.”

Arthur faltered – he knew that peace was a fleeting dream in this ever-warring world, but it still held like a golden light in his heart so that one day, Excalibur would be needed no more.

He raised the sword again, threateningly at Merlin.

“My knights trust me not to betray them to their enemy,” Arthur hissed, righteous fury filling his stomach as he thought back to all of his knights. The ones that had always looked at him with trust in their eyes and loyalty in their hearts. The ones that had once fallen on the battlefield to this man.  

“Rome was my enemy, not Arthur,” Merlin countered, shaking his head though his tone was regretful. It was the voice of a leader, who made the hard decisions and regretted the necessity of them. It was a feeling that Arthur knew well. “We have no fight between us now.”

Arthur snarled, stepping closer. “You tell that to the knights you killed before my very eyes, whose bones are buried in this earth.”

Merlin tilted his head in deference, leaning on his staff. “We have all lost brothers.”

“You know nothing of the loss I speak!” Arthur roared, pain and memories bubbling up like fire in his blood. “Shall I help you remember? An attack on a village. The screams of an innocent woman as she was trapped by the fires of your raid. I tried to save her but I was just a boy with no weapon to aid me. My father’s bones had been buried in this earth years prior, his sword stuck in the stones of his grave. I begged with his ghost and pleaded until the sword was pried from the rock. I rushed back to her aid and there was nothing but smoke and ashes left!” He stepped forward again, Excalibur clenched painfully in his fist. “I still feel the heat of that fire on my face even now.”

Merlin and Guinevere shared a meaningful glance, before the elder Woad walked forward within Excalibur’s reach. “I did not wish her dead,” the wise man finally said, face beget with sorrow. “She was of our blood, as are you.”

Arthur barked a laugh, a broken thing that bit back the pain in his throat. His body was shaking with a tumult of emotions. “Don’t you get it? It’s not the blood that matters. She was _innocent_. No innocent blood should be spilt upon the ground, if I can help it. And I will,” he pointed Excalibur once again at Guinevere and Merlin. “Even if I must stand alone.”

Merlin’s eyes considered him for a long moment before he hummed thoughtfully then called out in Pict language. “ _Bring the Esyllt here._ ”

Guinevere and Arthur whirled at the words as two Woads appeared out of the brush, dragging a limp figure between them. 

With a start and a sudden onslaught of unrivaled fury, Arthur realized it was Bedwyr.

His youngest knight was filthy, covered in blood and dirt from head to toe. His lips were blue from the cold as they had removed his outer cloak and his body was soaked to the bone from the winter weather. When his head tilted up slightly, Arthur could see that Bedwyr’s blue eyes appeared hazy and unfocused from beneath his ragged fringe, and there was blood leaking from his temple through his matted raven locks. One of his braids was missing, having been chopped cleanly off from the rest of his bedraggled curls. His skin was a stark, unhealthy pale in the moonlight with dark bruises and old blood casting heavy shadows across his form.

He looked like he’d been through hell.

“What did you do to him?!” Arthur roared, charging forward only to stop as three arrows aimed his way. He snarled at the Woads again, but then Bedwyr groaned aloud, shaking his head from where he hung. Arthur tried to speak to him, gentling his tone slightly even as he glared at the Woads. “Bedwyr, it’s alright. It’s me. It’s Arthur.”

Bedwyr coughed wetly, blue lips trembling before he smiled lightly. “Arthur,” he breathed softly, his voice misting in the cold.

The commander nearly cried, hearing the unbridled relief in his knight’s voice. Instead, shaking with rage, Arthur raised Excalibur once again at Merlin, the point aimed at the Woad leader’s neck. “You will release him. You will release him now!” he demanded.

Merlin merely stared before nodding. “I was going to. The _Esyllt_ wouldn’t give us what we wanted. Wouldn’t betray _you_.”

Arthur flinched, face furrowing in confusion. “What do you mean?”

But that was the least of his concerns as the Woads threw Bedwyr bodily to the ground at Merlin’s feet. At first, Bedwyr collapsed heavily with a groan, but then the Roman commander watched as his knight struggled to his knees, shaking limbs and trembling body bent over before the Woad leader.

Then Bedwyr tilted his head up to look at Merlin, blue eyes once again clear and glinting wildly in the moonlight.

“ _I told you, Merlin,”_ Bedwyr said, his voice soft and hoarse as stone, but Arthur could hear a proud smile wrapped within his words. “ _He is one to_ follow _. He is the only one._ ”

Merlin patted the knight’s matted dirty locks in an almost affectionate gesture. “ _So you did. I was wrong to have doubted you.”_

Then the Woad leader stared at Arthur, his voice filled with a subdued wisdom. “Arthur, they say that the lion is known by the strength of his claws. If the _Esyllt_ is your claws, then we know you are a very strong lion, indeed.”

Merlin paused and glanced once at the trembling but unbroken Bedwyr then at the Woad men at his back, before he continued, pointing at Arthur’s sword with his staff. “My men are strong too, but they have need of a true leader. They believe you can do anything. To defeat the Saxon, we need a master of war. Why do you think I spared you and your knights in the forest? That sword you carry is made of iron from this earth, forged in the fires of Britain. It was love of your mother that freed the sword, not hatred of me. Love, Arthur.”

It was a heavy moment and for once, Arthur stared at Merlin in complete silence, the prophetic words ringing loudly in his head. 

“ _Father,”_ Guinevere stated, speaking up for the first time to Merlin. Her dark, conflicted eyes stared at Bedwyr’s form. “ _Why the_ _Esyllt?”_

Merlin hummed thoughtfully while Arthur saw Bedwyr bite back a grimace, pressing a hand to his side as he finally struggled to his feet.

Arthur understood most of the British language - his mother having been one herself - so he leaned in to listen as Merlin spoke, his tone filled with a curious mirth. “ _We did not capture her per se. She attacked the Saxons with fire from the skies and they pursued her. She fought and defeated them but was injured in the process. Our scouts came across her camp in the northern woods as she slept. They . . . escorted her here. We simply wanted to know her magic.”_

_“It’s not magic,”_ Bedwyr growled half-heartedly. “ _It’s a weapon – just like any other.”_

_“And we want it,”_ Merlin retorted back. “ _Against the Saxons,_ _it would be a great . . .”_

_“It would be a disaster,”_ Bedwyr snapped back, his posture stiff and defensive. “ _It took me years to master it and even then, this is the first I have ever used it in battle. We do not know if the Saxons have similar weapons, but if they defeat us and capture that knowledge . . .”_ Bedwyr shook his head, his thin shoulders slumping as though beneath a heavy weight. “ _There is no telling what they would do. No, it’s better for it to remain in the shadows. I would not trust you with it anyway.”_

_“Perhaps it is your destiny,”_ Guinevere added, her dark eyes still watching Bedwyr even as the knight glared back.

“ _There is no destiny,”_ Arthur interrupted in halting Pict tongue. He strode forward to support Bedwyr’s weight, wrapping an arm around the knight’s thin shoulders to keep him steady. “ _There is only free will.”_

Merlin stared at Arthur a moment, before he spoke again in unforgiving tones. “ _And what of the free will of your knights? Did they die in vain?”_

Arthur’s jaw tensed and he stiffened in defense against Bedwyr’s side, visibly struck by a familiar sense of guilt and shame for the Roman actions taken against his knights.

But then, Bedwyr’s voice broke through his thoughts like a clear wind through the fog, sounding both rueful and chiding in the dark of the night. “ _Free will is defined by our choices. Do we live or die? Do we fight to go home or fight to protect another? Will we charge on the battlefield or retreat from it? Should we forgive or condemn the choices of others? We knights will always argue that we are_ free _men, that our will has always been our own because_ these _choices have always been ours,”_ Bedwyr nodded his head toward his leader, “ _That is thanks to Arthur_. _Do not belittle the free will of our brothers who fell before us. They made their choice and went gladly to the fields of the gods.”_

The speech was met with a weighty silence as the Woads refused to meet Bedwyr’s burning, scolding blue gaze.

Arthur felt a knot in his chest loosen from the forgiving, almost apologetic words of his knight. Dumbstruck, he simply tightened his grip on Bedwyr’s shoulders in a quick gesture of gratitude and Bedwyr leaned back into his side with a smile, letting his leader know that he got the message.

Merlin eyed the two of them, his gaze heavy and considering before he nodded then turned away, disappearing into the shadows of the wood. All the Woads save Guinevere followed. 

With the last of them gone, Arthur felt the tension leave Bedwyr’s body as he slumped almost completely into him with a groan. Arthur looked at the knight worriedly, still seeing the bleeding head wound and pale skin. “Bedwyr! Bedwyr, are you alright?”

The knight chuckled weakly. “Aye, Arthur. It’ll be fine. I just need some rest a bit. It’s been a long two nights.”

Arthur hefted him up slightly, unable to dissuade the frown from his face at Bedwyr’s pale form. The bruises and shadows under his eyes looked even worse from up close. “Alright, let’s get you back to camp then.” He glanced at Guinevere with a question in his gaze and she tilted her head back in acknowledgement. She would be joining them as well.

After Bedwyr shrugged off any assistance, much to Arthur's ire, the three walked back in awkward silence, though Arthur burned with questions at Merlin’s words. What did he mean about Bedwyr? What weapons could his knight have used to rain fire down upon the Saxons?

Suddenly, just as the light of dawn appeared through the trees, Arthur heard a rustle of commotion and the clash of metal upon metal – the obvious sounds of fighting in the camp up ahead.

He glanced down at Bedwyr, who merely nodded grimly then straightened his shoulders and walked quickly towards the camp before any could stop him.

Arthur and Guinevere exchanged a look of exasperation then trailed after the reckless young knight.

In front, they heard Bedwyr shout then saw him barrel into two of the Roman guards that had been with Alecto and his family.

Quickly, Arthur withdrew his blade, snarling in anger when he caught full view of the situation.

Alecto’s father, Marius, had taken Dagonet’s boy hostage and now had a knife to the child’s throat while an unarmed Dagonet had been defending himself from two of the guards – that is until Bedwyr attacked them with all the fury of a blood-mad warrior fresh from the field.

Watching, Arthur paused in the shadows, impressed and mildly proud as Bedwyr – even while wounded and exhausted – took down and disarmed each guard with vicious brutality, sweeping one to the ground by breaking his knee with a hard kick then jumping onto the back of the other like a cat and clocking him out with a vicious blow to the side of his skull.

Panting heavily and with his blue eyes slightly feral in the firelight, Bedwyr stood up from the two downed guards and stared at Marius with alarming intensity.

Marius trembled in slight terror at the sudden presence of the grim and dangerous figure before foolishly putting the knife closer to the child’s neck. Bedwyr tensed and the remaining Roman guards raised their swords toward the knight just as Mairus ordered. “Kill him! Kill him now!”

The soldiers started to surround Bedwyr even as Dagonet came to his side with a roar, the knight’s sword now flashing in his hands.

The Roman’s wife – Fulcina – jumped forward with a cry toward Marius, pulling at his arms. “No, don’t! Let him go!”

Mairus shrugged her off with a sneer just as Bedwyr and Dagonet charged forward towards the Roman guards.

Pressing the knife closer to the boy’s neck, the noble sneered again at the knights. “Kill them now! Kill . . .”

Then, he choked off and the fighting halted as they all looked to see an arrow sticking out from Marius’ stomach.

Arthur turned and smiled grimly when he caught sight of Guinevere with a long bow in her hand and a look of vicious satisfaction on her face.

Beside her, Lancelot strolled up, his two swords hefted on his shoulders.

He eyed the Woad woman for a moment before smirking in approval. “Your hands seem to be better.”

As Marius fell back with a gurgle of blood, Lucas pulled himself free and ran to Dagonet, who picked up the boy into a fierce hug. Bedwyr remained protectively – if a tad shakily - between the father-son duo and the now retreating Roman guards.

With a feral glare, Bedwyr took one look at the still-armed soldiers and pointed to the ground. “Weapons. Down,” he growled, his voice carrying the weight of barely restrained violence.

One glance into those steely blue eyes that held only all- consuming rage and the weapons dropped from the Romans’ hands immediately.

Later, Arthur would find a certain ironic humor in the fact that one unarmed Sarmatian had forced trained Roman soldiers to disarm themselves with barely two words.

“Artorius!” Bors roared, his axe in hand and his large horse stomping up to the group easily. Twirling his axe, he glared at the soldiers, a threatening expression on his face. “Do we have a problem, huh?”

Arthur simply shook his head tiredly then strode forward, the weight of Excalibur heavy in his hand.

He looked sternly at the Roman guards, whose master had just died to an arrow and who now watched him with all the attention of guilty men at their execution. Bors’ horse snorted in one of their faces and they flinched with fear.

“You have a choice,” Arthur explained evenly. “You help or you die.”

The soldiers took one look at burly Bors astride his horse, another glance into Bedwyr’s wintry blue eyes with Guinevere’s arrow trained at them all, then back into Arthur’s resolutely grim expression before they nodded frantically in unison.

Arthur smiled humorlessly. “Good choice. Your weapons will be held with us for now.”

A hawk screeched above them all and the gathered Knights turned to catch a grim Tristan riding up to camp.

Behind him trailed Bedwyr’s horse – Tamatahra – with the young knight’s pack and belongings stacked up on his back.

Bors chuckled grimly at the scout as he rode in. “How many did you kill?”

“Seven,” Tristan answered, his voice impassive and almost frigidly cold as he halted his horse in front of Arthur. “Not nearly enough.”

He roughly threw down the crossbow in front of their leader and opened his mouth to say something only to be interrupted as a whistle shrilled lightly through the air.

The group turned to look as Tamatahra galloped through with a snort, coming quickly to Bedwyr’s side and nuzzling his hand. 

From Alecto’s wagon, Cavall’s head popped up with a yip and the wolf ran forward, licking his master’s other hand and rubbing his weight against Bedwyr’s legs as their youngest knight chuckled lightly, whispering to his tamed beasts in affectionate tones.

Arthur had the distinct pleasure of seeing Tristan’s stoic expression morph briefly into shock then visible relief as he spotted the bloodstained - but very much alive - Bedwyr standing in the center of camp.

Tristan’s jaw opened slightly as though to call his name, but then the scout snapped his mouth shut and went silent, retreating into his usual stiff and indifferent demeanor.

But Arthur noted that a stony tension had leaked out of Tristan’s body and his shadowed eyes had lightened at the sight of his fellow knight.  

Tristan’s voice though was still hoarse when he turned back to Arthur and spoke again, motioning to the crossbow. “Armor-piercing. They’re close but not as close as they should be. We have a little time.”

Arthur nodded grimly while Bedwyr snorted, coming to a halt beside them.  “We should have _at least_ a little time. It took ‘em nearly half a day to recover.”

“Recover from what?” Arthur asked, glancing sharply over at his youngest scout.

Bedwyr shrugged wearily, shoulders slumping against the weight of Tamatahra at his back.

By now, most of the Knights had wandered over and circled Bedwyr, keeping the reunion away from prying eyes. They’d done this before after one of their own had gone missing and while wry grins and relieved smirks were evident on every face, the Sarmatians kept themselves carefully controlled, maintaining their composure over the blatant happiness that their brother-in-arms had returned.

They still had a mission to complete after all, with a Saxon hoard at their backs.

“Oi laddie, what happened out there?” Bors growled, still twirling his axe menacingly. “You were supposed to be back yesterday.”

Arthur saw Bedwyr grimace at the sight of the serious faces on his fellow Knights then straighten his shoulders, keeping his tone light. “I needed to stall the Saxons otherwise they would have caught us within the day. So, I created a little . . . chaos,” he explained vaguely.

Arthur and the Knights exchanged curious glances before Bedwyr continued with a careless shrug. “Unfortunately, their leader caught sight of me towards the end and some of their cavalry hounded me in the woods. I lost ‘em then headed back north to make sure they didn’t follow me to ye before I killed ‘em all. In the fight, I was  . . . wounded. The Woads tracked me, waited till I had passed out, and then captured me in the clearing. I was . . . eventually freed and ran into Arthur and Guinevere on the way back to camp.”

Bedwyr shared a meaningful glance with Arthur, and he nodded back. They wouldn’t mention Merlin’s little visit.

There were a few grumbles and scowls when he finished, the other Knights sensing holes in the story but not willing to push against Bedwyr’s unyielding expression.

“How many?” Tristan asked casually, his dark eyes roving over Bedwyr’s body and marking each wound like a tally.

Bedwyr smirked. “Ten mounted Saxons. Their bodies lie in the mud now.”

“Good.” Tristan nodded once, a grimly satisfied expression on his face before looking back at Arthur expectantly.

Arthur glanced at his older scout, who appeared weary but not nearly as exhausted as Bedwyr. “Tristan, you ride ahead. Let us know what to expect.” Tristan nodded at his leader’s order, turning his horse to ride back up the trail.

Then Arthur turned to his other more foolish knight, keeping his voice stern and controlling. “Bedwyr, go rest in the wagon while we travel. You’ll be of no use to us now.”

Unmoving, Bedwyr had watched Tristan go with hooded eyes and a blank expression before slumping slightly with Arthur’s words.

Guinevere placed a gentle hand on the young knight’s shoulder, steering him towards the wagon. “Come, _Esyllt_. Let’s have a look at those injuries, eh?”

It showed how wounded and exhausted Bedwyr had been for the usually reckless knight gave no word of protest, his wolf and horse following behind him obediently.

Arthur and the other Knights watched the two go with tense and worried expressions mirrored across their faces.

Eventually, the Roman commander sighed and barked out orders to the rest of his Knights. “Alright, the rest of you. Let’s pack up and move out. We got a long journey still ahead.”

**


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am a great believer of luck; I find that the harder I work, the more I have of it."
> 
> \- Thomas Jefferson 
> 
> In which there is a lake and fate is changed for one of the knights.

**

_Blue skies and green earth and light raining from the heavens and you are an oath, a sword bound in blood and fire and battle_ _you will bring forth a new era little aga raven child esyllt go forth -_

Bedwyr awoke slowly to the soft movement and chatter of the wooden carriage. She blinked blearily into the wan light, noting that her head still ached something fierce while the rest of her body was little better. Sluggishly, she rolled her neck and glanced over with hazy eyes.

Her beloved Cavall lay at her side, nuzzling his nose into her injured ribs while Alecto was seated by the window, his dark eyes staring out into the gathering storm. In the back of the wagon, she caught Fulcina and Guinevere with Lucas in her lap then Oberon dozing by himself in the corner. The monk Horton was there as well, anxiously glancing out the back.

Her mouth felt dry and she had to wet her bloodied lips a little. The memories were unclear from the days before and she caught Alecto’s eye when he glanced at her. He moved over, scratching Cavall’s ear with one hand as he looked at her.

“How are you feeling?” the Roman youth whispered quietly.

She stared at him in wonder. He was so young with not even a wrinkle or scar from any battle-worn years. _What are you doing here in this cold, dangerous place?_ She wanted to ask.

Instead, Bedwyr mutely nodded in response, trying to shake her head of such useless thoughts. Too quickly, the memories sharpened and if she angled her head, the distant sound of Saxon drums could be heard. War stopped for no one, she supposed.

“How long ‘ave I been asleep?” she slurred, still not fully awake. Her bird’s nest of blood-matted hair stuck out in every other direction, and she could feel the grimy dirt on her body still.

“It’s afternoon now. The sun passed its ascent a mere two hours ago,” Alecto answered, voice almost amused as he took in her rather ungraceful, lethargic state. She moaned lightly then stretched, curling her toes and raising her limbs with a loud yawn.

If he didn’t know better, Alecto would have said the young Knight looked like a cat lounging in the sun after a nap.

Bedwyr’s eyes blinked then she groaned before placing a hand on her aching ribs as she struggled to sit up.

Alecto watched her with wide eyes, moving his hands as though to stop her while Cavall whined softly at her side. “You shouldn’t be moving. Your head injury was bad and you didn’t even wake when we called for you this morning.”

The knight frowned at that, but rose to her feet, moving her limbs carefully to gage how far to push. It hurt but it was a pain she was accustomed to and she could bear it.

“ _Esyllt_ ,” Guinevere called, placing Lucas down and picking her way over to the knight quickly. “Arthur said you should still be sleeping.”

Bedwyr shook her head before gritting out. “Can’t. Not yet. Saxons’s coming. Got to help.” Then, she gave a sharp, irritated look to Guinevere. “Don’t call me _Esyllt_. Your father started that ridiculous thing.”

Merlin’s daughter scoffed, wrinkling her nose. “That is who you are.”

Bedwyr just shook her head, knowing a futile struggle when she saw it. Instead, she crawled to one of the windows and stuck her head out of the wagon to glance out, blinking fast in the white light.

The snow was coming down hard and through the bleary wind, Bedwyr could just about make out the Knights riding both next to and ahead of the wagon carriage. The other peasants were huddled closer toward the center and looked freezing. If she squinted, she could spy Arthur in the far back.

She frowned. Arthur was supposed to be leading the caravan but there was a morose, distracted expression upon his face that she couldn’t quite read from this distance.

What had happened to him?

“ _Esyllt!_ ” Someone pulled her back into the wagon by her hair and she growled with annoyance. It was Guinevere with an angry look that reminded Bedwyr of Vanora at her most irate.

Bedwyr tried not to wince.

“Arthur told me to keep you in the wagon. You are still injured and we haven’t been able to heal you because you’ve been sleeping,” Guinevere hissed.

“What’s it matter anyway?” Bedwyr scowled, trying to release herself from the crazy Woad woman. “Let me go, ya daft Woad!”

Guinevere ignored her, dragging her back to her bed. “Now, where are you hurt?”

By now, the other occupants of the wagon had gathered around and were staring at her expectantly.

The knight crossed her arms in a stubborn way, glaring at them all and refusing to answer.

Guinevere gave a light sigh, crossing her arms. “You’re more stubborn than Lucas. You’ll never get out like this.”

Bedwyr threw her hands in the air then flinched as her ribs seared her chest in protest.

The movement was not lost on Guinevere, who simply glared harder. Even Lucas’ blue eyes widened and he was giving her an almost pleading look.

Damn. She’d always been a sucker for children.

“I might have cracked my ribs,” Bedwyr admitted through clenched teeth.

The Woad woman nodded, kneeling down and tugging at Bedwyr’s shirt. “Well, let’s have a look at them.”

Bedywr cringed and backed away, realizing exactly what that would reveal. “No. Not happening. Only Vanora can look at them. I’ll just wait till we get to the Wall.”

“That could be days from now,” Guinevere retorted, her movements becoming more determined as Bedwyr tried to escape her grip.

“I’ll live,” the knight deadpanned, capturing the woman’s wrists in her own hands and glaring at her. “What’s it matter to you?”

Guinevere stopped struggling and for a moment, Bedywr thought she had won, but then she caught the small smirk on Guinevere’s face just before the other woman called out.

“Oh, Arthur!”

Bedwyr’s glowered darkly as a hint of dread filled her stomach.

As if summoned from thin air, Arthur’s face appeared through the window, wearing an expression of sincere worry and concern that never failed to make Bedwyr feel guilty.  “What’s wrong, Guinevere?”

The knight frantically shook her head, just as Guinevere’s mischievous smile widened. “Your knight hurt her ribs and now won’t let us help her.”

“Bedwyr,” Arthur ordered, his grey eyes worried and reprimanding as Bedywr grimaced at his tone. “Lie still and have Guinevere take a look at you. You’re no use to us if you’re injured.”

“I’m fine, Arthur,” Bedwyr growled out, refusing to be cowed. “I’ve suffered worse than this, ya know. We don’t have time.”

If anything, her leader’s mouth thinned into a straight line and his glare hardened. Bedwyr tried not to retreat into herself as he opened his mouth to speak. 

“Arthur! Come up here and have a look at this,” Tristan’s voice interrupted. There was a grim tone to it that had both Arthur and Bedwyr glancing sharply at each other, before Arthur turned his horse and rode ahead.

Bedwyr waited all but a moment, before pushing past the irate Guinevere to the window to glance out.

Ah, so that was what had Tristan worried.

A lake of ice lay before the travelers with a cliff on both sides and no bank to speak of. They would have to cross directly over it to get to the Wall. 

She saw Arthur exchange some words with Tristan before both dismounted from their horses.

“Alright, get out of the wagons and, Knights, off your horses!” Arthur ordered to the crowd.

Bedwyr and Guinevere shared a determined look, the knight’s injuries forgotten, before quickly moving to help the other passengers out of the wagon.

Once the peasants, knights, and nobles were on solid ground, Arthur turned around to yell. “Everyone spread out and start moving across.”

Behind them, the Saxon drums grew louder, pounding into the air.

Keeping one hand on Tamatahra’s reins, Bedwyr held Oberon’s hand with the other as she guided the blind Woad across the cracking ice with steady feet.

Next to them, Bedwyr spotted Tristan as well, watching the frozen lake with dark eyes and keeping his horse Tabiti firm at his side. 

The impassive scout glanced up suddenly and caught her gaze, throwing her a relieved smirk. Surprised, she smiled back, feeling reassured for some inexplicable reason.

As they reached the middle of the lake, the caravan started to slow, nervous murmurs rising from the peasants and Romans as more and more cracks appeared beneath their feet.

“Spread out more!” Arthur roared and they shuffled to comply, each person keeping his feet from sliding across the windswept ice.

Behind them, the Saxons drums grew even louder and tension resonated through each of the knights as they fought to keep the panic down and the group from outright running across the lake.

Bedwyr spared a moment to give one look over at the cracks forming beneath the wagon then at the ice expanding underneath Tamatahra’s hooves when she was struck with an idea.

It was so bright and brilliant and downright crazy that Arthur’d probably kill her but it could work. She looked over at Tristan with an instant grin. “Oi, Tristan, is this the only way to Wall from here?”

He glanced over at her, an almost confused frown on his usually impassive face. “Yes. We have to cross the ice.”

Eyes lightening with vicious glee, Bedwyr gave a little feral grin. “Perfect.”

She put a hand on Oberon’s shoulder, guiding him carefully over to the next closest person – who happened to be Guinevere. “Can you look after him and Tamatahra for a moment?”

The Woad woman gave her a confused scowl but nodded, taking Oberon’s hand and whispering to him in their language. Once she knew Oberon was secure and Tamatahra’s reins were in Guinevere’s hand, Bedwyr nodded then ran on light feet toward Arthur, tiptoeing around the larger cracks.

“Arthur!” She slid up to him, giving him a cheeky grin while carefully ignoring the slight twinge of pain coming from her ribs. “I have an idea.”

Her leader gave her a completely unwarranted exasperated glance. “Bedwyr. How are those ribs?”

By now, the other Knights were glancing over at the two with curious looks, even as the rest of the caravan continued on across the frozen lake.

Bedwyr groaned aloud in exasperation, realizing that her commander didn’t even understand the strategic advantage he had before him.

“Arthur,” she started, grabbing hold of his shoulder and turning him to look her in the eye. She ignored the crackles of breaking ice and the wind howling in her ears. “We are standing on an unstable frozen lake that is cracking beneath our feet, right?” At his cautious nod, she continued. “This is the _only_ trail which means the Saxons will soon have to be standing on this frozen lake as well, right?” Seeing his eyes finally lighten with understanding, she drove her point home. “What will happen when the Saxons arrive and walk across this lake, only to find that it can’t carry their weight?”

“The ice will break and they won’t be able to follow us,” he breathed, a hopeful look on his face before he smiled at her. She merely grinned back at him. “What’s your plan?”

Bedwyr backed away from him slightly before motioning with her hand. “Remember what Merlin said about my . . . weapons?” He gave her a sharp glance then nodded. “Well, I could use them to break the ice once the Saxons arrive and we all have safely crossed. I just need to head to the back.”

There was pause as Bedwyr waited urgently for Arthur to agree. His gaze appeared conflicted but the Saxon drums roaring in the distance must have convinced him because he reluctantly nodded. “Very well. But we’re going to help you.”

Bedwyr blanched then shifted nervously. “It’s fine, Arthur. It only needs one person.”

“Is it magic, like Merlin said?” Arthur asked, his grey eyes intent upon her face.

She crossed her arms, snorting. “No. It’s just – it’s dangerous, Arthur. Far more dangerous than the average sword or knife. We’re going to have to be careful.”

There would be no harm in them knowing. Not if it protected her brothers.

Arthur nodded then looked around at the other Sarmatians, who had all gathered closer to the two and had the distinct appearance of eavesdropping children. “Knights?” he asked, waiting for their opinions.

Lancelot merely nodded eagerly just as Bors grinned in answer. “Well, I’m tired of running. And these Saxons are so close behind my ass is hurtin’.”

Tristan shrugged with a reckless smirk. “Never liked looking over my shoulder anyway.”

“Be a pleasure to put an end to this racket,” Gawain added with a grin. 

“And finally have a look at the bastards,” Galahad scoffed, a determined light in his eyes.

Dagonet strode forward, already taking his axe out of the pack. “Here. Now.”

Arthur nodded before looking expectantly at Bedwyr, who sighed then straightened her shoulders. Warmth bloomed in her chest when she saw the blatant trust and resolute determination on every knight’s face.

“Very well. I need all of you as archers. If this is going to work, I need these bastards clustered toward the center. Ditch the horses and the caravans. They won’t like what I’m about to do,” she warned.

“Agreed. Jols!” Arthur called, silently motioning to their horses.

The quartermaster nodded then looked at two of the Roman soldiers. “You two,” he pointed. “Help me take the horses.”

The Roman soldiers immediately complied while Arthur faced one of the peasants, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Ganis,” he ordered. “I need you to lead the people. The main Saxon army is inland, so if you track the coastline till you’re well south of the wall, you’ll be safe.”

Bedwyr paused, glancing over just as Guinevere walked up to their group with only Tamathara at her side. The dark-haired woman appeared coolly determined with a bow in her hand. Bedwyr exchanged a hard meaningful look with the Woad before reaching for her horse. Guinevere just gave her an understanding nod. The Woad would not reveal what would happen here.

“But you’re eight against 200?” the peasant Ganis protested aloud. Bedwyr snorted even as she shifted through her pack, looking for the last of the Roman oil. Those were better odds for her than before.

“Nine,” Guinevere corrected, coming up beside Arthur as though daring him to deny her. “You could use another bow.”

Arthur startled at seeing her then nodded in agreement with an expression of wonder upon his face while Bedwyr stifled a grin at Guinevere’s words, even as she found the flint and supplies she needed.

Once she collected her sword and bow from her pack as well, the youngest knight nuzzled Tamatahra affectionately then whistled lowly once to get the black horse to follow the rest of the caravan.

When she turned back, the peasants and soldiers were already pushing the horses and wagons to move carefully across the frozen lake.

“Go! Go!” Arthur waved his sword at the crowd to get moving. The Knights and Guinevere stood together and watched as the peasants and Romans passed by, each face filled with respect, solemnity, and more than a little fear as the eight knights and one Woad went to face an army.

At her side, Bedwyr saw Dagonet wave a hand at little Lucan, who was once again seated in the wagon while Bors muttered something touching about sons and fathers.

“Arthur!” Alecto called, walking up with the wolf Cavall shadowing his side. “I am able. I can fight.”

Arthur turned and placed his hands on the youth’s shoulders, grey eyes grim but determined before turning the lad back around. “You must bear witness to all you have seen. There’s one thing you must do, and that’s get back to Rome,” he ordered.

Reluctantly, the Roman boy nodded then retreated back to the caravans.

Cavall bounded over to Bedwyr, who in turn patted her wolf on the head then pointed back at Alecto with a few whistles.

The mutt looked mutinous for a moment then obeyed, falling into step next to Alecto with ease.

“Now, Bedwyr,” Arthur called her to attention after Alecto had left. “What’s the plan?”

The Saxon drums were growing louder by the moment, to the point that they had to shout at one another but Bedwyr just gave a feral grin. “Well, brothers,” she drawled, hefting the water skins of oil for all to see. The Knights and Guinevere exchanged confused looks. “You’re going to need to distract them.” 

“While you do what exactly?” Tristan drawled, watching her with glittering dark eyes.

“While I prepare,” she answered vaguely then pointed over to the narrow corridor behind them. “We’re stable here on this end of the lake, but it’s the middle of the ice that’s going to break first. We need to make sure that the Saxons are there when it does.”

“They’ll be within shooting range of us,” Arthur commented, eyes narrowed at the lake.

Bedwyr simply shook her head. “No, they won’t. Not with the wind in our favor. None of their crossbows could make it.” Her grin stretched a tad more as the knights’ faces lit up with understanding. “But our long bows will reach them. And I’ll make sure the ice breaks before they get anywhere near us.”

“Thus cutting off their attack,” Gawain finished for her, crossing his arms. “So where do you want us?”

 “All of you will need to line up here on this side of the lake and stay ready. Arthur, can you come up with a way to move the Saxon lines closer to the middle?”

At his sure nod, she gave a soft smile. “Perfect. Okay, I need to get ready.”

“And where will ya be, lad?” Bors grunted, watching her closely.

Bedwyr bit her lip, knowing that this would be the part they didn’t like. “I’ll be over there on the cliff-side, hidden in that dent on the right.” They turned to look at where she pointed.

There was a little overshadowed crack in the cliff rock directly within throwing distance of the middle of the lake.

It would just barely hide her from Saxon sight when they rounded the corridor, but if they spotted her, it would also put Bedwyr in very close range of their crossbows, long before the rest of the Knights.

Luckily, it also shielded her a bit from the wind, which would help when making the fire she needed.

As soon as the knights saw how close her position would be to the middle of the lake and then to the Saxon army, there was a series of darkening looks then immediate protests from the loudest members of the group.

Arthur held up his hand with a scowl, silencing them then looked at Bedwyr closely. “Bedwyr, if this plan doesn’t work, you will be well beyond our reach. There is barely any cover and you are too far within range of their weapons. Why do you need to be that close to the enemy? What if they see you?”

“That’s what I need you for,” she snorted, feeling her heart beat quickly as the Saxon drums grew louder. She motioned back toward the narrow corridor that the hoard would be moving through. “When they come through there, they’ll immediately see you as the bigger threat. You’ll distract them and keep their lines moving forward while I’ll make sure they won’t even see me until it’s too late.”

_I hope_ ,” she added in her head.

Arthur stared at her long and hard for a moment as Bedwyr met his gaze evenly. “Arthur,” Bedwyr finally said. “Trust me. The ice will break. I’ll make sure of it.”

She carefully didn’t mention that it would happen even if she had to take her own sword to the ice to do it.

Her commander’s eyes searched her own before he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Very well. We’ll go ahead with this.”

Bedwyr nodded quickly, shuffling the rest of her supplies to her back and carefully ignoring the cracking of ice beneath her feet. She looked at every knight, seeing their gloomy faces and bleak looks.

She smiled at them a little grimly. “Don’t miss.”

The Sarmatians chuckled darkly then waved her off as she spun on her heel and ran on light feet back along their path and over to the right. It was perhaps fate or the gods’ blessing that she was the smallest of the knights, able to tuck her body and supplies behind the little crack in the cliff rock.

Once she was out of sight, Bedwyr released a heavy sigh, feeling a knot of tension tighten in her shoulders and adrenaline quicken her blood. To be fair, she had absolutely no idea if the fire on the arrow would not die in the wind before it hit the bag of oil. And if the Saxons were as close as they would have to be, then there was a high chance that they would spot her instantly. So, she would have to be as quick if not quicker than her attacks from the previous night.

Oh joy.

Steeling herself, she got to work. The gods must have been on her side because the second flint caught the oiled deadwood, giving off healthy little embers. She built the fire up quickly with shaking hands, noting the trembling beneath her feet and the Saxon hoard growing ever closer. 

With hurried movements, she created two fire weapons similar to before, pouring the last remnants of the oil evenly into each water-skin bag before tying them securely. Once that was done, she was able to grab her last two arrows and slick the shafts as well as the feathers with oil.

And then she put on her thick gloves and crouched to wait.

Eventually, Bedwyr peered out of her spot again, noting the tension in every knight’s stance as well as Arthur and Guinevere standing shoulder to shoulder. Their bows were nocked and the arrows held at the ready, aimed across the lake.

All eight of them were aligned to her left side and Bedwyr suddenly tensed, sucking in a breath when she spied the Saxons filing in through the corridor on her right. Her position was exactly between the two opponents. Steadying her breathing, she ducked back into her hiding spot and grabbed her bow, feeling her fists clench white against the wood.

For a moment, Bedwyr closed her eyes, ignoring the pounding in her heart and the fierce dropping in her stomach. If she missed, that would be the end for both her and her brothers-in-arms.

That could not be borne.

When she opened her eyes again, her gaze was filled with reckless determination as she gritted her teeth to keep from chattering. Then the knight lit both arrows, placing them carefully at her feet within easy reach.

Her eyes caught movement and she looked up in time to see the knights’ feathered bolts plough into the sides of the Saxon lines as the army marched forward even more.

She stilled herself, hidden within the shadows as more arrows flew past her and the Saxons started to huddle toward the middle of the lake as their flanks were cut down one by one.

Face hard and jaw tense, Tristan looked particularly determined, as each of his arrows cut through the Saxon armor and skulls with almost vicious precision.

Bedwyr took a deep steadying breath then took one of the oil bags and threw it as hard as she could to the center of the lake. She watched its arc carefully, noting the strength of the wind and its eventual landing. There was a pause in the fighting as though each side was surprised at the odd appearance of the water-skin and it was enough as she grabbed her lit arrow, aiming carefully for the bag on the ground just as she heard the Saxons cry out.

It seemed they recognized it. She grinned viciously. It was a tad too late.

With grim satisfaction, the fire arrow flew from her fingers like a blur and struck the oil bag where it had landed.  There was a clap of thunder, a brief flare of light, and an immediate rumble from the ice as large cracks erupted in the middle of the lake.

Their feet now unsteady on the shifting ice, the Saxon lines, close as they were to her, stopped completely. There were brief shouts of fear and terror as the frozen lake continued to break apart beneath their feet.

With a curse, Bedwyr noted that it hadn’t shattered the ice completely however and quickly set to creating another fire weapon. 

“Keep firing!” she heard Arthur yell, with more and more of the opposing raiders drifting unsteadily toward the center of their lines.

The bald Saxon leader roared in response. “ _Hold the ranks! Hold the ranks! Aim the rest of the arrows for the pocket over there, ya bastards. Hold the ranks or I’ll kill you myself_!”

Seeing the Saxons start to gather their wits and charge forward again, Bedwyr snarled, throwing the second oilskin weapon with a grunt toward the center of the lake, where she knew the breaking ice would be at its weakest. Her last fire arrow in her hand, she aimed and with a breath, let it loose upon the water-skin filled with oil.

Another clap of thunder and brief flare of light boomed then the ice erupted with an earthy groan, cascading water upon the Saxon hoard. She watched grimly as the cracks now grew into creaking gaps and yawning breaks with the raiders sliding into the freezing water below. 

With a jolt, Bedwyr saw one of the fissures of the lake deepening towards her position as well and realized she had miscalculated.

Quickly, before the cracks could grow and cut her off completely, Bedwyr gathered her weapons and turned to run towards Arthur and the others. With the Saxons distracted, now would be the only chance but she would have nearly no cover and the barbarians were still firing arrows towards the knights.

It was now or never. Her muscles tensed once and then, with a grunt, she flew out from the safety of the rock, a black figure easily spotted among the white landscape.

“ _Get him! Take him down_! _Kill him_!” Bedwyr heard the Saxon leader roar from closely behind her.

Arrows immediately whistled by her ears, but she didn’t stop or look back. She couldn’t, not when the cracks were widening beneath her feet, the shifting frozen lake slipping her boots, and the ice was breaking faster than she could dodge it. Every misstep could be her last.

“Bedwyr!” Bors shouted, moving towards her slightly. 

“Forward! Cover him!” Arthur roared and in her limited line of sight, Bedwyr saw the knights and Guinevere fire their arrows again, carefully keeping the missiles away from their returning brother-in-arms.

Panting heavily, she glanced up once to see how close she was to the others and easily found Tristan’s dark, steady eyes fixed upon her even as he continued to release deadly arrows across the lake.

Seeing him, she set her mouth in a firm, determined line as she jumped lightly over another growing crack. 

It was her downfall, for as soon as Bedwyr had tilted her gaze away from the treacherous ice, a gap widened suddenly beneath her next jump and her feet stumbled forward.

Her movement stalled long enough – time slowing to a crawl - and then a searing amount of pain erupted from her back and ribs as Bedwyr felt her body fly forward with a thud, taking her breath away before she landed heavily and limply across the ice.

“Bedwyr!!”Dagonet thundered, desperation and rage in his voice.

With bleary eyes and gasping for a breath that couldn’t come, she tried to glance up only to scream out as another Saxon bolt tore into her upper thigh. 

“Keep firing! Give us some cover!!” she heard Arthur bark, but the sound was muffled by the wind and the pounding of the blood in her ears and the coldness spreading through her limbs.

With a groan, she blinked heavily and opened her eyes, only to see hazy images of pounding feet running towards her and the soft white light of the snow. It felt like a heavy weight was pulling her down lower and settling on her chest with all the burden of a mountain.

Rough hands grabbed for her limbs, and she resisted a scream as the movement sent fresh amounts of scorching pain across her back and leg. There was a familiar rumbling voice in her ears, but she couldn’t make it out from the black blooms of darkness filling her senses.

Limply, she blinked once again, lips moving soundlessly, and looked up just as Tristan’s face – a pale shadow and wide, dark eyes swirling with nameless, burning emotions - swam into focus.

A smile tugged her lips, copper liquid on her tongue, even as she reached a bloodied hand up to brush along his fringe.

He didn’t move away and underneath her fingers, he stilled like a startled wolf and his silent eyes swallowed her own, his gaze dark and dangerous and pleading.

“Go home, _shikra_ ,” she whispered with a last breath. Then the darkness consumed her and there was no more.  

**


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The secret to change is to focus all of your energy, not on fixing the old, but on building the new."
> 
> \- Socrates 
> 
> In which secrets are secrets for reasons unknown, and she wakes.

 

**

“- bleeding out-“

“-Get those clothes off and –“

“- He’s a –“

“- Dag, Guinevere, we’re gonna need –“

“-How long have you -“

“-a woman – “

 “– not gonna make it at this rate – “

“-gotta get the arrows out. Dag, hold her down and –“

“Ye saved us – ye saved us all -”

“Stay still! Bedwyr, that’s an order. Bite this –“

“Heavenly father – please –“

“- love – it’ll be legend – all you need to do, _zāḡ-e šab_[1], is stay here with – please”

There were voices caught and held in her mind, snatches of words and prayers dripping with desperate emotions like blood upon the white, heavy haze that she was trapped in.

There were intense bright flashes of pain, like something ripping through her skin and muscle and bone that made her roar out and gasp, every step of crawling and fighting her way back to the others. Hands and the hazy fog of red hot agony held her down and she struggled against it -  struggled hard to surge past it all until it stilled to a dull pulsing ache.

The voices – they had seemed important – so very important and it felt like if she stopped moving, stopped fighting, then there would be regret and sorrow and grief.

She didn’t want that. She wanted them. She wanted –

The woman came awake slowly, her memories weighted with sleep. Caught in that place between wakefulness and dream, she blinked blearily, groaning against the soft pillow beneath her head. She was on her stomach, face angled away to press deeply into the pillow. 

Her body surged again with pain and she nearly gasped aloud, tears pricking her eyes and cringing as something in her body jolted.

A hand rustled her hair, softly petting through the tangled locks and brushing them away from her face.

“Easy. Easy now,” a soft husky voice said, whispering close to her ear. “Ye’ll be alright, lass.” She knew that voice. With immense effort, she tilted her gaze up slightly and found Dagonet, staring at her with a fond expression upon his face.

“. . . did we win?” she slurred, tasting the blood in her mouth.

He nodded at her, a grim expression on his face. “We did. Only thanks to you, Bedwyr. We’ll ne’er forget that.”

She went to assure him that it was fine, it was for them, it was _all_ for them, but already, the darkness was sweeping her under again. The last thing she felt before her eyes closed was the soft affectionate rustle of her hair and Dagonet’s deep rumble of a voice.

“Thank ye, sister.”

**

“Well, ‘ts a right mess,” Bors growled, throwing his sword down upon the ground before collapsing down upon a log.

Guinevere and the other knights all glared at him while Arthur just sighed, rubbing a hand across his face.

“Which of you knew?” he asked them wearily.

In the distance, the peasants, soldiers, and Romans were making camp, a little ways away from where the Knights stood collected in a circle next to the wagon.

Inside, Bedwyr lay recovering with Dagonet watching over her.

_Her_ – being the main issue.

Once Bedwyr had fallen in battle, bleeding out from Tristan’s arms but still alive, the warriors had rushed off that frozen tundra as quickly as possible.

On horseback, Arthur, Guinevere, and the knights had raced to catch up to the caravans, leaving the broken Saxon hoard behind them.  As soon as they had caught up, Fulcina and Dagonet had taken over, healing and cleaning the young knight’s wounds as much as possible. She had taken one arrow through her right shoulder blade, nicking her lung, another buried in her hip, barely missing any major organs, and another through her upper thigh. All had to be removed immediately and the task had lasted the rest of the night, with fearful screams of pain and agony erupting through camp, before Fulcina could finally claim that the worst was over.

Now, Bedwyr had slept feverishly for the past two days with various knights and others taking turns watching over her. The caravan was camped within one day of the Wall, and Arthur finally had to deal with a very pressing matter - one of his knights was a woman.

Lancelot and Gawain exchanged looks while Galahad shook his head vehemently.

Bors simply sighed. “Aye, I knew.”

“I guessed,” Dagonet shrugged, climbing out of the wagon and coming toward them. “It wasn’t that hard if you saw the signs.”

They all glanced at Tristan, who still had a sliver of her blood upon his brow and remained stoically silent, watching the wagon like a hawk from his position against the tree.

“Bors, you knew?” Arthur exclaimed, looking down at the burly knight. “And you said nothing?”

“Oi, Vanora’s the one who told me! Think I’d risk being denied my own bed for ten years by going ‘gainst her? That woman terrifies me, and with good reason,” Bors snorted, grinning slightly though it ebbed a bit when he saw Arthur’s face. He shrugged, looking back at the fire. “Didn’t think it meant much anyway. She’s a knight just as any other, fighting over 15 years at our sides. Doesn’t matter if she has tits or not.”

The others grimaced at the crude language while Guinevere actually glowered. Even Tristan turned to gaze at Bors for a dangerous moment, before resuming his watch. 

“Don’t let her hear that,” Dagonet rumbled. “She’ll kick your ass ten ways to next year. She’s a tough lass.”

“What I want to know,” Lancelot stated, walking forward with his arms cross and brow furrowed. “Is how did she get here in the first place? The Romans were very specific about Sarmatian _sons,_ not daughters though we all know our women can fight better than any Roman.”

Arthur answered grimly. “Romans don’t tolerate women in the legion. According to their laws, women – especially barbarian women – are meant only for a few things.”

The knights muttered darkly in response to that, glancing over to where Fulcina and Alecto stood by the other soldiers. 

“So,” Gawain continued, peering at the covered wagon. “He – I mean, she – was ten, right? When the Romans came to collect? How’d our little Bedwyr get put up here then?”

Tristan and Arthur exchanged dark glances at that while the rest of the knights merely frowned, each lost in thought.

“Ow, what bastard hit me?” a voice whispered hoarsely.

They turned quickly, looking at wagon, only to see a grey, thin face of Bedwyr peeking out from where she lay. Her unbound raven locks hung limply to her feverish forehead and her pale skin wrapped in bloody bandages peeked out from under the cloak that covered her naked chest.  Her hazy and unfocused eyes were wide with a soft whitish blue as though all the color had been drained from them. She tilted her head to look at them all, her voice huffing with great effort though there was still the shadow of a smirk upon her face.

By the tree, Tristan had stilled, his body angled immediately toward her while his dark eyes drank in her broken form like a drowning man would look upon land. 

Dagonet strode over to her instantly, a worried frown on his face. “Ya, shouldn’t be up, lass. Go back to bed.”

She waved a hand in the air as though to dismiss the thought but stopped before coughing harshly twice. The knights rushed to surround the wagon, each head glancing through the curtains to check on her.

Their woman-knight grinned at them all, eyes blinking sleepily. “So, we survived then?”

“Some of us,” Bors huffed, unable to keep the worry out of his voice. “What were ya thinking, lass?”

“I was thinking that my brothers were in danger,” she slurred, even wincing slightly. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“Oh, aye,” Gawain agreed, leaning against the side of the wagon while he glanced in. “Think ya killed more Saxons then the rest of us combined.”

“Good,” she chuckled weakly. “Means I can just take a break then for a bit.”

The knights again exchanged worried glances even as Arthur reached through the wagon to touch her on the shoulder. “We’ll never forget it. And this time, when I say rest, you rest, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” she nodded sleepily, eyes closing before her body slumped limply into her cot.

There was a brief flurry of panic, before Dagonet reached through, placing a hand on her forehead. “’s alright. She sleeps now,” he said after a tense moment.

A heavy sigh of relief echoed as the knights took one last look at the sleeping woman before walking away.

Tristan was the last to leave, his dark eyes roaming their youngest Knight, stopping at each curve of the collarbone and glimpse of pale, wounded flesh.

“Don’t worry, Tristan,” Galahad exclaimed, bravely clapping the silent scout on his shoulder. He resisted the urge to flinch when Tristan glowered stoically back at him. “She’ll be alright.”

Their scout nodded stiffly once then turned and walked back to his post. They watched him go with aggrieved sighs all around.

“Well,” Lancelot said, breaking the silence. “If there’s one good thing about all of this, at least, those two won’t be pining for each other anymore.”

Arthur and the other knights all paused and stared at him, and the womanizer blinked back. “What?”

Bors barked out a laugh, while Dagonet and Gawain merely chuckled. Arthur and Guinevere exchanged amused looks.

Only Galahad felt vaguely disturbed by the idea. He was young and naive, having been under the impression that Bedwyr was a man this whole time.

He remembered, though, the whispered words that Tristan spoke to Bedwyr as they held her down to keep her steady and pull the arrows. It made them all blush and glance away awkwardly, hearing the undying love in his voice and eyes.

After that, there was no doubt that Tristan had known of the Sarmatian woman in their midst, though for how long remained a mystery. 

“Let’s get to sleep all of you,” Arthur finally ordered, though the mirth was still clear in his voice. “We have a long day ahead tomorrow.”

There were rumbles of agreement before the Sarmatians all retreated back to their cots. Guinevere took up a bed in the wagon near Bedwyr to keep the woman-knight company while Arthur went to go for first watch.

“Arthur.”

The commander glanced up, not too surprised to find Tristan perched up in the tree, looking down stoically at him. It was the scout’s favorite spot for his watch and Arthur often forgave him the eccentricity.

“Yes, Tristan?” he asked, curious. The silent knight never usually spoke of his own volition unless directly asked or if it was a pressing matter.

“What are we gonna do about the monk?” Tristan asked, his dark gaze flitting over to where the other peasants and Romans camped then back to the wagon where Bedwyr slept.

Arthur stilled, his thoughts immediately going dark as he realized what the scout was implying. Horton was the bishop’s trusted man and he had clearly seen when he had been assisting with saving Bedwyr's life. . He would report back to Germanus that one of the Sarmatian knights was a woman. Arthur had no idea how the bishop or Rome would react to such a long deception. At best, they’d leave her alone. At worst - well, with news of Pelagius’ execution at the forefront of his mind, Arthur could imagine what the worst was.

And then there were her weapons. Never before had he seen such a thing – and neither had any of the other knights, judging by their shock once the first clap of thunder and fire broke the ice. It was fortunate that Horton had been with the wagons. He could only imagine what the Romans would do if they knew of that type of firepower.

He glanced back up at Tristan again, knowing all too well what would happen if Bedwyr was threatened once more by the Empire. 

“We’ll do everything we can to protect her, Tristan,” Arthur exclaimed suddenly, catching his scout’s eye to drive his words home and keep him grounded. “This I do swear.”

Tristan’s unfathomable eyes considered him for a long moment before he actually smirked, looking back at the wagon where Bedwyr lay. “’Always knew there’s a reason we chose to follow ye.”

Arthur cast a grim smile back, feeling warmth fill his chest as he glanced over to where their recovering knight slept in peace.

_Sleep well, sister._

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] “Raven of the night” in Old Persian http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/crow-a-bird-of-the-family-corvidae-represented-in-persia-and-afghanistan-by-six-genera-garrulus-pica-nucifraga-podoces


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